Traitor
by auri mynonys
Summary: Grima returns to help the country he betrayed. COMPLETE!
1. Banishment

Author's Note I've had this story idea ever since I saw TTT and the chicks at the Gríma/Èowyn yahoo group got me working on it. So, here's the beginning! Please review - it'll inspire me to write more, I promise!

The world flew past him as he urged the horse to a mad gallop, as he tried to outrun what had happened only moments before - Gandalf's arrival, Théoden's recovery, his own banishment -

His loss of Èowyn.

_Èowyn_. Gríma swallowed the painful lump forming in his throat and dug his heels into the black horse's side. "Ride, dammit," he swore, although he knew the horse was going almost as fast as it could. _Get me out of here._

Suddenly, he pulled on the reins and turned to look back at the proud hill upon which Edoras stood. He could still see, barely, a figure clad in white, standing atop the gates. Watching him?

_Oh, Èowyn…_

He turned and urged the horse to a gallop.

c

The dark rider on the plains began to gallop again. Èowyn watched him go, her arms crossed tightly across her stomach, embracing herself. Tears stung her eyes, but she swallowed them furiously. _Traitor! Traitor to my country, traitor to my uncle…_

_ Traitor to your love. To me._

"My Lady?"

Èowyn turned and saw Gandalf standing behind her, a worried frown creasing his features.

His eyes wandered towards the plains and followed the rider she had been previously watching. "He troubles you, my Lady," Gandalf said softly.

Èowyn turned away. He could not understand. No one would ever understand.

"You don't know why he did it," Gandalf stated, coming to stand beside her.

"He hated us," Èowyn said flatly. "He hated us because he felt we were cruel to him."

"No," Gandalf said with a shake of his head. "Gríma is a man who does not do something without a reward. And he didn't hate Rohan enough to simply be rewarded by its downfall."

"Then what would be his reason be for betraying us?" Èowyn demanded, turning to look at Gandalf. "There is nothing else that he would have wanted badly enough to - "

She stopped when she saw the look in Gandalf's eyes. "You," Gandalf said softly. "He asked for you."

Èowyn stared at him, aghast. "Me…?" she repeated, barely above a whisper.

Gandalf laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I am sorry," he said softly, and then he turned away and left her.

Èowyn looked back at the plains in confusion, seeking the dark rider she had been watching earlier.

He was gone.


	2. Losses

_Author's Note:_ Thanks for the review, EP41 - apparently you're the only person who loves me. sniffles I hope this chapter is to your liking…

The night came upon him suddenly, as though it desired to consume him in darkness, to throw him further into the black pit of depression. His horse nearly collapsed from exhaustion when he finally brought it to a halt. Absently, Gríma led it to a nearby stream, and as it drank he dropped down on the stony ground and began to think.

Guilt consumed him. He had not expected to feel guilty about what he had done. Gríma called Wormtongue had done many less than reputable things, but he had rarely felt guilty about them. Then again, he had rarely been caught. And this was by far the worst thing he had ever done in his life - to betray his country and his people.

Ah, but the reward…

The reward would have made everything worthwhile.

Gríma closed his eyes and leaned against a large boulder, ignoring the coldness and the hardness of its surface. He could see her face, her beautiful face with its shimmering green eyes and soft pink lips, the gentle, girlish blush of her cheek, the soft golden waves that framed her face…

All of that would have been his to treasure, had he succeeded. He could have stroked her golden hair without worrying that she would push him away; could have kissed her lips a thousand times without fearing her wrath, or her brother's; could have held her in a tight embrace and never had to let her go. She would have been his - _should_ have been his. But…

_Damn Gandalf! Damn him to Mandos!_ Gríma's fingers curled around a nearby rock, and he threw it, enraged, into the river. He imagined gripping Gandalf's neck in his hands, and squeezing, squeezing the life out of him, watching his eyes bulge as he attempted to suck air into his lungs, watching his eyes glaze over as the life slipped from him. Somehow, this fantasy failed to satisfy him. Gríma had used a similar daydream frequently with Èomer, picturing the Third Marshal wriggling on the floor and gasping, trying to beg but unable. It had worked much better with him than it was with Gandalf.

Gríma decided to settle on a fantasy that he knew would satisfy; something involving himself and Èowyn… probably in a bedroom…

_Ah, yesss…_

c

Èowyn couldn't sleep that night. She laid staring at her ceiling, seeking answers in the woodwork above her and finding nothing.

_You. He asked for you._

Èowyn thrust the furs aside and climbed out of bed. The air around her chilled her, but she ignored the cold. She opened the door from her chambers and walked quickly down the hall to the throne room, her feet padding softly across the stone floor.

The Hall was empty at this late hour of the night, and Èowyn silently thanked each and every one of the Valar for this. She walked slowly, almost reverently towards the two seats upon the raised dais at the ending of the Hall; one her uncle's, and the other… Gríma's.

She stopped in front of where Gríma would, usually, have been sitting. Even during the night, sometimes, when Èowyn had risen from her bed after being plagued with unhappy dreams, she would find him sitting there, leaning against her uncle's throne and thinking. What he thought of she never knew; but sometimes, in the soft, flickering torchlight of the hall, she had sat beside him, and they had talked of nothing and of everything.

One such talk had been last night. Èowyn had been up late tending to her cousin Théodred, praying that he would live but unable to hold out hope for such a miracle. Troubled, and unable to sleep, she had left Théodred to rest and had wandered into the Hall. There, too, Gríma had been sitting, a thoughtful frown upon his face. So intent upon his thought was he that he had not even noticed her until she had spoken.

"Théodred is dying."

He had looked up, startled, but had not risen. "I am sorry to hear it," he said sincerely, sitting up a little straighter.

She had approached him slowly, tears making their way down her cheeks. "If he dies, there's no one left for me," she had said softly.

Gríma had looked upset at this. "Oh, Èowyn, there will always be someone there for you," he had said.

"Who?" she questioned. "Théodred, Èomer, Théoden, they are all gone in one fashion or another."

There had been silence. And then, "And what of me, my Lady?"

Startled, she had looked up at him - really looked at him - for the first time that day. "What…?"

He had risen and approached her, cautiously, as a man will approach a wounded beast. He had said nothing more; only cupped her face in his hands, so gently, so lovingly, and planted a tender kiss upon her lips.

If things had not been so bad, if it had not been so late, if they had not been truly alone, Èowyn would not have let him kiss her. She wouldn't have let him draw her into that tight embrace, wouldn't have let him wrap her in the warm comfort of his arms. But they had been alone, and she was so weary of being lonely herself, and so weary physically, that she had let him hold her while she wept.

She must have fallen asleep in his arms, for she could remember nothing else of that night. She had awoken that morning in her own bed, tucked safely under the furs, and there was no trace of Lord Counsellor anywhere.

Only he and she knew what had taken place the night before, and she refused to reveal to anyone that it had happened. She avoided his eyes - himself - all that day, until her discovery that Théodred had died. And then he had been there, all sympathy, all warmth and gentleness and kind words. He would have held her again, planted kisses on her tear-dampened cheeks, would have cradled her and eased her pain, had she let him do so.

She had not.

And now she was regretting it with all her soul.

She knelt beside the chair that had been his, laid her head against its edge, and wept.

Thoughts anyone? Reviews are very much appreciated! hint hint


	3. He Thinks, She Seeks

_Author's note:_ Ta-da! Chapter 3! bows deeply Now for thank you's and explanations:

_BoromirsBabe: _Ha! I have snared another into my fandom! Just kidding. But I'm glad you enjoyed the fanfic enough to get hooked on Gríma/Èowyn… it's a wonderfully juicy pairing. I hope this chapter does not disappoint!

_Vereena:_ Hello! Thanks for the review! blushes at compliments I'm glad you enjoy the story. I keep checking to see if there's new stuff on your site, but there isn't. sniffles Ah well. It's good to hear from you, though. I was worried for a while.

_EP41: _So you liked the little "fantasy" line? I liked it, too. J Of course you can borrow that idea/concept/thing for a one-shot! Just make sure I get to read it first. wink And now for the explanation. No events in the movie are changed. It's just a matter of perception on the character's part. She's crying by her cousin's side, and then Gríma comes in and does his whole, "Oh, he… he must have died sometime in the night…" routine. The point being that she was seeing his sympathy and the falseness of it at the beginning, but then what he says later (the "So fair… so cold…" line) is gentler, warmer, more affectionate. Do you see where I was going with this? Thanks for pointing out your confusion, though. Maybe I'll alter that part.

And now, without any further ado…

The sun rose through a thick fog that morning, and Gríma rose with it, despite his inclination to remain curled in a heap on the ground for the remainder of his sorry life. He was sore all over from the rocks he had laid on, but he still mounted his horse and rode on towards his unavoidable destination.

Gríma was not particularly looking forward to greeting Saruman with the regretful news that Gandalf had successfully shattered all of their carefully laid plans. Of course, Gríma imagined that Saruman was well aware of this fact already; but that did not make the thought any more pleasant.

If only that stupid guard, Háma, had taken Gandalf's staff! Then this wouldn't be happening. Gríma wouldn't be riding to Isengard, praying that he wouldn't be murdered instantly upon arriving; he would be in Meduseld, enjoying the pleasure of watching four executions, and then (oh, didn't he wish), he would be returning inside and spending the rest of his day speaking with his precious Èowyn - perhaps convincing her to allow him to hold her. She had let him do so only two nights previous; would have let him again, last night, if he hadn't been banished. If Gandalf hadn't come at all, this morning he might even have awoken in the same bed with her. Gríma fully believed his words were capable of convincing Èowyn to do such a thing, or would have been, had he given them the chance. He was almost certain she had been close to giving in, very close - one more day of resistance, just one more day, and she would have been his.

Growling in anger, he glared at the bleak countryside ahead. How he hated Saruman and Gandalf and all other wizards, how he wished they would all crawl back into whatever hole they had come out from! Even without Saruman's help, he might have been capable of seducing Èowyn. At least he would have been doing it honestly. Not that he had ever been honest at any point in his life.

Gríma laughed bitterly at this thought. Honesty might have served him better in gaining Èowyn's love, he admitted. But it was too late now to consider that. She was gone from him forever. He would never see her again.

Abruptly, Gríma reigned his horse in. _I will never see her again._ He had not considered that fact until that very moment, and now, there it was, staring him in the face. _I will never see her again. How will I live?_

Gríma felt as though someone had taken a thousand swords, pushed them into the ground, point facing upwards, and shoved him down upon them. Never again! The pain of those words nearly struck him to the ground. He had no idea that not being with her would hurt him so deeply. But here he was, alone and without her, feeling as though he had just been shot down by an arrow.

He kept his horse reigned in, still focused upon the black hole that had been created in his spirit, for a very long time, until finally, another thought managed to invade his mind. _Saruman will kill me if I don't arrive soon._

Reluctantly, he started towards Isengard again.

c

The day was strange without Gríma there.

Théoden, Gandalf, and the other new arrivals were discussing war and the best strategies to avoid the apparent oncoming onslaught that Saruman would predictably send. Èowyn, of course, was not permitted to join these discussions, and so she set about practicing her sword work.

Normally, this activity would calm her mind, and it did, for a while; but, unconsciously, she began to seek the dark form normally skulking in the shadows, watching admiringly the fluid movements of her body. She had never been irritated when he would watch her as she practiced; she had loved showing off, and knew that he had loved giving her the opportunity to do so. But the sudden remembrance of his banishment caused all the pleasure to be sucked from her swordplay, and she stopped much earlier than she usually would have.

She had planned to return to her room, but as she walked down the corridor in which the royal chambers were, she stopped by Gríma's door. She had never been inside his quarters before, and she began to wonder. _What are they like? What did you keep inside your rooms? What secrets are hidden inside?_

Cautiously, she pushed open the door and entered.

The door opened to a library. There was a table at its center, which was littered with hand-drawn sketches and paintings, and other papers - notes, perhaps. There were shelves lined with books from every corner of the world pressed against each wall, and there was a long couch in one corner that Gríma might have slept on if he had too much work to do. This was obviously Gríma's favorite room, and the one he spent the most time in.

Èowyn approached the table uncertainly. She couldn't read, but she wanted to see the pictures he had drawn. She lifted one of them from the table -

And saw it was a picture of her.

It was so startlingly lifelike that it made Èowyn jump. It was her features almost exactly, but the gown she wore was certainly one Gríma had invented in fantasy, as it revealed far more of her than Èowyn preferred to show. She smiled slightly and studied the rest of the pictures. They were all of her, some better than others, and some that were positively shocking, obviously straight from some sort of daydream that Gríma had been having.

Èowyn replaced these on the table and approached a door on the opposite side of the room. She opened it slowly and saw that it led to a drawing room, in which there were seated many comfortable chairs and a large table. This would typically have been frequented by various guests visiting Lord Counsellor's quarters, but it was doubtful that Gríma had many visitors at all.

The room had fallen into total disrepair. There was dust all over the tables, cobwebs in the corners, stains on the carpets, and stuffing popping from the cushions on the chairs. Mice scuttled in every corner, squeaking loudly, and spiders hung on the lamps around her. She could see all of Gríma's boot marks across the carpet. They led directly to the next door - a large, ornate wooden entryway.

Èowyn opened this door and found that it led to a bathing room, with a tub, a basin, and a few towels. This room appeared to have been more used than the previous had been - but not by much. Èowyn smiled slightly, recalling Gríma's greasy black hair and dirty clothes, and how many times she had wanted to toss him into a bathtub and scrub him until he sparkled.

_He wouldn't have minded that so much._ She smiled wryly and moved on.

The next door led to Gríma's bedroom. On the edges of the room, there was a closet and a thousand candelabras. There was a desk on the opposite wall. Pressed against the back wall was a massive four poster bed, surrounded by black silk curtains. Èowyn pushed them aside and saw that the blankets, which were made of velvet, had been thrown carelessly at the end of the bed. At the head, there were hundreds of cushions. They were all made of extremely lush materials, like velvet and satin.

Èowyn dropped onto the bed. It sank under her weight, and she fell back on it. It surrounded her comfortingly. Èowyn's own bed was not nearly so luxurious as this. _He has a feather mattress, then._ Èowyn cuddled against the pillows and closed her eyes. _I wouldn't have minded sleeping here. I've never found a bed so comfortable._

She might have slept there someday, if Gríma had had his way. She would have fallen into this same bed every night, were he still here - and he would have been with her.

Suddenly, she had a visual of Gríma lying beside her, watching her with his strange white and blue eyes that held a longing that only she had ever comprehended. She sat up in shock, her head swiveling this way and that, looking for him, and softly she released a breath when she saw that he was nowhere to be found.

She rose from the bed and started to leave. She stopped in the doorframe and glanced over her shoulder. His quarters could definitely use a cleaning, if only to accommodate the current guests. Perhaps she should take the task into her own hands?

She nodded decisively and then swept out of the room.

Thoughts, anyone? Care to share your opinion? (giggles That rhymed!) Did I make up for the romantic-Gríma with enough sleazy Gríma? looks hopefully at EP41 If not , you can smack me upside the head. Or just send me a review. That always works too. giggles That rhymed again!


	4. Saruman and Cobwebs

_Author's Notes:_ sweeps in wearing large black cape I have returned from afar with more fanfic! bows deeply Thank you EP41, Vereena, and others for their nice reviews! It excites me to hear what people think. So drop me a line and tell me how you feel about this chapter. (Sorry, more Èowyn stuff than Gríma. There'll be more on him later.)

Really quick note: _EP41: _I thought the image of Èowyn scrubbing him till he sparkled was funny, too. giggles

And now… sweeps out; lights fade

The gates in the wall surrounding the Tower of Orthanc opened to allow Gríma entrance, and he galloped inside at top speed. He heard the fatal slam of the gates behind him and tried to ignore the ominous feeling that there was no escape from this hated place any longer.

Machines clanked around him, loudly, and Orcs and Uruk-hai alike shouted rude remarks at him as he rode past. He attempted to ignore them, praying that someday all of them would fall into the massive pits where much of Saruman's work was carried out. He doubted highly that this would happen, but he could dream. He had been doing so for most of the years of his life.

He stopped when he reached the tall stairs leading to the doors of Orthanc. He dismounted and climbed as quickly as he could. He could practically feel Saruman's wrath from the ground level, and, though he was not looking forward to meeting with his master, to delay that meeting would only serve to make Saruman angrier.

As soon as he reached the top of the stairs, the door banged open, and there stood Saruman, his eyes flashing and his arms crossed over his chest. "Well, well, well," he said icily. "So the failed spy has returned."

Gríma dropped onto one knee. "I did everything I could, my Lord," he murmured fearfully. "I commanded them to take Gandalf's staff - it isn't my fault they didn't - "

"Of course not," Saruman said, and his voice showed his deep contempt for his servant. "Rise. You need no longer grovel." Gríma stood, but refused to meet the wizard's gaze.

Saruman turned and swept into the building. "We shall have to implement other plans," he said decisively. "You know what Théoden's next move will be?"

Gríma shrugged slightly. "Théoden will not stay at Edoras," he said evenly. "It's too vulnerable, and Théoden is more aware of this than anyone. The Rohirrim will flee to Helm's Deep - the great fortress in the mountains."

"And can you think of any way to impede their progress to this fortress?" Saruman asked.

"They are most certain to go slowly, my Lord," Gríma said. "They will have women, children, old ones, and the sick and handicapped with them. It would be an easy task to overtake them."

Saruman smirked. "Excellent," he murmured. "Come," he said sharply, and then he began down the stairs again.

Gríma followed him

c

Èowyn began the difficult task of cleaning out Gríma's quarters in the first room - the library, she had begun to call it. Her first priority was to look through the art on the table and decide what was to be kept, and what was to find a place in a deep, deep drawer, or in a dark corner - or in a fire pit, for that matter. There were several pictures that she was fairly certain she did not want anyone else seeing - and that Gríma would most certainly have wanted to keep secret.

These were the pictures that Èowyn took care of first. She dusted and cleared the desk in the room and, finding one of the drawers to be empty, she placed the sketches in it. She silently prayed that no one would be looking in that drawer anytime soon. The rest of the artwork she placed on top of the others in the same drawer. Having taken care of that chore, Èowyn set about the rest of her task: cleaning.

She started with the floors. They were hard stone, as were all the floors in Meduseld, and they were disgustingly filthy. Over this floor, there were a few carpets. These Èowyn carried outside and beat clean of dust and whatever other grime they contained. The dust practically choked her, and it covered her from head to foot. She wasn't at all embarrassed, however, until she noticed someone watching her.

"May I ask why my Lady is cleaning?" the dark-haired visitor who had come with Gandalf questioned, approaching her. Èowyn realized, as her cheeks flushed, that he had been watching her for quite some time.

She shrugged in embarrassment. "Lord Gríma's quarters must be cleared for whomever will come after him," she said carefully. "I took the task upon myself."

"That sounds like a great lot of work," the man said. He bowed slightly. "I will help you, if I may. I am Lord Aragorn."

"I am Lady Èowyn," she replied, bowing in return. "I would appreciate your help."

Aragorn smiled, and then turned and motioned. Two other figures approached, one short and stocky, the other tall and slender. Èowyn recognized them as the Elf and the Dwarf that had come with the dark stranger Aragorn. When they had arrived, Aragorn introduced them. "This is Prince Legolas of the Mirkwood Realm, and Gimli son of Gloin," he said. "This, gentlemen, is Lady Èowyn, the King's niece."

Each murmured something polite, and then the Elf, Legolas, said, "May I inquire what my Lady is doing?"

"Cleaning the previous counsellor's quarters," she said, brushing a stray lock of blonde hair from her face. "Aragorn has offered to help me."

"We will, as well," Legolas offered immediately. Gimli did not look particularly happy about this, and expressed his displeasure in a low, throaty growl. However, he said nothing more, and the three strangers followed Èowyn back into Gríma's rooms.

The three looked around with some disgust, and Gimli commented, "This counsellor was not a very particular housekeeper."

"Would you have thought anything else, from his appearance?" Èowyn asked, smiling despite herself. "He was never particularly cleanly. He threw himself into what he did with all the passion in his soul. He didn't have time to clean, or so he believed."

Èowyn, who had brought in a bucket of water and a scrubbing brush earlier in the day, dropped to her knees and began to work at the dirty floor. "The next rooms are worse," she informed Legolas, Aragorn, and Gimli. "They'll be more difficult to clean."

"We'll start on the next room," Legolas said, again speaking for Gimli and himself. Again Gimli did not seem pleased with this decision, but he made no objection other than low, mumbled complaints, and he followed Legolas into the parlor.

Èowyn and Aragorn worked in silence for a long time. Then, Aragorn spoke. "Perhaps my Lady could explain something to me about Lord Wormtongue."

Èowyn flinched slightly at the cruel nickname given the King's Counsellor. "What is it you wish to know?" she asked.

"I saved his life," Aragorn said carefully. "Yet when I offered him my hand, he spat on it. Why?"

"I would imagine that he had no desire to be indebted to someone else," Èowyn replied, replaying yesterday's scene in her mind. "He might have felt trapped. He couldn't stay, because he was certain someone would kill him - but if he went, he was going to a crueler master than any he could have here. It would have been better for him to die, and yet, you spared him. And there were things here that were hard for him to leave behind…"

_I think. I hope._

Èowyn trailed off, and one tear slid down her cheek. _You looked back. Did you see me watching you? Was it as hard for you to leave me as it was for me to watch you go?_

"My Lady?"

Èowyn looked back at Aragorn, and then hung her head.

"I'm sorry," Aragorn apologized quickly. "It is hard for you to speak of him. I understand."

Èowyn turned to stare at the wall. _No, you don't._

Was that a bad chapter ending? I have this problem with endings. I dunno. I have the same problems with beginnings. I just have this thing with starting in the middle and writing the middle and not stopping or beginning or anything. looks at screen Wow, that was a tangent if I ever saw one. Seriously now. Tell me what you thought! I'd really like to know.


	5. Heroics for the NonHeroic

_Author's Note_: If you hadn't noticed already, this story is pretty much based off of the movies. Thought I should include that, just so everybody knows. And now on to the ever so important thank yous!

_EP41:_ Loved your book ending! Although now I have nothing to look forward to… sniffles Although you are a rather prolific writer. I have promised myself that sometime in the near future I will review you Phanphics. Anyway, thanks for reviewing! "Storm" is up, too, if you so desire to read it.

_Lady Baelish_: Yay! Someone else loves me! does happy dance I'm glad you think Gríma is well written - I try hard to make him be likable but still the sick stalker-pervert that he is. Hmmm… you're probably right about Èowyn, but since this story is extremely AU… I don't know. She'll get better as the story progresses, I think. And about "Storm"… tried to send you an email about that one, but my computer hates me, so it bounced back. Anyway, the story is reposted so that everything is there (although I'm not certain it's in the right format… last time a posted it half the story was in italics and it wasn't supposed to be). Anyway, it still ends abruptly, but there's an explanation for that posted at the beginning of the story. Since I had to take it down and repost, your review has disappeared, so if you could review again puppy eyes that would be fantastic. Hope you like this chapter!

Thanks to everybody else reading this story and please review. Just to let everyone know, this chapter has no Èowyn POV and it goes back into Gríma's memories for a little bit. Hope you enjoy!

Gríma hated the underground caverns of Isengard more than any place on the entirety of Middle Earth. They were hot, fiery, dirty, and filled with orcs and Uruk-hai creating weapons, armor, and more Uruk-hai. Saruman knew of Gríma's dislike of the pits and so found excuses to go there as often as possible.

Orcs who had been busy creating armor looked up as the wizard and his spy walked by, lifting their heads and snorting, bowing to Saruman and leering at Gríma. Gríma tried to avoid their hateful stares, but it was nearly impossible. "Forgive me, my Lord," he said to his master, "But may I ask you why we have come down here?"

Saruman smirked. "You do not enjoy this place, then," he said, already knowing the answer.

"I absolutely loathe it," Gríma spat. "May I return to the tower?"

"No," Saruman said with an evil grin. "You will stay here."

"But you do not need me," Gríma whimpered.

"You don't know that," Saruman said calmly. "Come, this way."

Gríma despondently followed Saruman down to where an orc stood overlooking… well… something. "What's here?" he questioned, attempting to see.

Saruman did not condescend to answer him. "Send out your warg riders," he commanded to the orc. The orc grinned evilly and then turned to look back down at where the wargs were apparently kept

Gríma felt horror slice through him. "Wargs, my Lord?" he gasped.

"It may destruct them before they come to safe ground," Saruman said.

Gríma desperately endeavored to convince Saruman that this was an unwise decision. "But my Lord, this was not our original plan!" he started. "I would advise - "

"And we see how far _your_ advice has gotten everyone in this world," Saruman said icily, turning to glare at his slave. "Our original plan can no longer be carried out. You completely destroyed all chances of _that_."

Gríma withered under the wizard's cruel gaze. "But - but - my Èowyn - " he whispered.

A cruel smirk crossed Saruman's face. "Ah, yes," he nearly purred. "Your so-precious princess. I suppose she might die as well? Such a shame. Nonetheless, a fitting punishment for a servant whose work has clearly become a failure."

Gríma's eyes narrowed. "You promised me," he snarled. "You promised me that she would be mine! You cannot break your promise!"

"You did not fulfill your half of the bargain," Saruman snapped. "Why should I have to fulfill mine?"

Gríma felt utterly staggered at this knowledge. Almost unable to comprehend, he stumbled backwards against a stone wall, still murmuring, "You promised me…"

_ A wizard's promise means nothing._

This was supposedly common knowledge among the Rohirrim. They were a rational people who tended to disbelieve the supernatural - or at least claimed to disbelieve the supernatural. Yet this did not explain their tendency to shun the strange, to put distance between themselves and the odd ducks of their culture - people like Gríma.

Foreigners were the worst - especially wizards and Elves and kinds of their like. Whenever Gandalf or Saruman would appear in the near vicinity, mothers would be heard reproaching their children, reminding them firmly: _Never trust a wizard, child. Their promises mean nothing._

Why hadn't Gríma listened?

He hadn't wanted to, of course. He had tried to ignore the secret letter presented to him by a mysterious old man in a hidden alleyway in Edoras. It claimed to be from Saruman the White, and it told of great things - great and terrible changes - that would soon be coming to his homeland. It warned of the dangers of future times, and promised him safety and freedom from fear - _if_ he would but betray his country and kin. _If_ he would give up the life he had known. _If _he would destroy the only place that he had ever called home.

His first thought: _What makes this request so worthy? What profit is there for me?_

And somehow, the wicked bastard of a wizard knew his thought, and came to his house in the dead of night with the answer.

_She whom you love, of course. Your fair white maiden, so pure, so strong, so beautiful._

Gríma had been staggered by this offer. "What?" he had gasped, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"You know how greatly you desire her," Saruman had hissed into the darkness, eyes glowing. "Your loneliness would be cured were she your wife. She would never leave your side. She would love you desperately, as you love her."

"How can this come to be?" Gríma had demanded suspiciously. "She will have nothing to do with me."

"I am Saruman the Great!" the wizard had said in a terrible voice, standing straight and proud before him. "I have more power than any in this land. I may do as I wish."

How was he to refuse such an offer? Saruman was indeed powerful, and surely a wizard would be capable of presenting him with what he desired most?

He was such a fool. He had believed - had wanted to believe - that Saruman would carry through. He had continued to believe, until that very moment. Now look where his betrayal had brought him - to this pit, to this horrible tower, under a cruel and bitter master, with no future and no love, no light, no hope.

Nothing.

He had to save her.

That was the next thought that came to Gríma called Wormtongue's mind.

He was, obviously, not heroic by nature, and, if he thought long enough, he wasn't saving her for any reasons other than his own wanting. But how to protect her - them - how to warn them?

Gríma glanced down at the warg pits again. The wargs were still snarling and spitting at one another while orcs attempted to gain control of them. They would not ride out for a few hours, at least.

The horse he had ridden to Orthanc was still saddled and ready. It would only take a matter of minutes to escape. And Saruman -

Gríma glanced at his master fearfully. But Saruman was involved in his own thoughts, clearly trying to devise another plan. After a moment, the wizard turned to glare at Gríma and said, "Return to your quarters. I do not need you."

Gríma bowed, his heart pounding. "Thank you, my master," he murmured, and then he turned and fled quickly to the surface.

He would go now, and she would be safe.

That was all that mattered.


	6. Saruman's Bargain

**Author's Note: I hope this chapter is better than the last one. I'm thinking of rewriting or taking Ch. 6 out entirely, since it has basically no point. If anyone has thoughts on that, I'm willing to listen. Anyway, like I said before, I'm playing a little with the plot, so reviews right now are extra important! Thanks for sticking with me!**

The oppressive thought of Èowyn's death had been driving Gríma mad for hours, but he had been unable to force himself to find some small ounce of courage in his body to save her.

_Damn you, you worthless coward! Damn your weakness! You can't even bring yourself to save the woman that you claim to love more than your own life! What kind of man are you? You **are** a worm!_

Angrily, Gríma kicked at the wall. He was not all that surprised to find that it harmed his foot more than the wall itself, but it made him angry nonetheless, and he swore profanely in several different languages.

"I see you've learned a few new things from the books in my library," Saruman's voice said dryly.

Gríma whirled to face his master and bowed guiltily. "What can your servant do for you, my Lord?"

"You are truly a coward, Gríma," Saruman said in a bored tone. "For a while I really thought you were going to ride off and rescue your fair princess. Quite charming, really. But of course courage and nobility are simply too foreign to your nature for you to do such a thing."

Gríma's face flushed, and he hung his head, glaring at the ground as though it had been the one to accuse him. "I - I would never betray you, my Lord," he whispered softly. "I would not -"

"You were planning to leave, Gríma," Saruman said flatly, and with these words he threw a bag forcefully at Gríma's feet. A map and some small provisions tumbled out onto the floor. A passage was marked in ink. It lead towards Helm's Deep.

Gríma swallowed the panic quickly rising inside of him. "My master," he whimpered, still unable to look at Saruman.

"Did you really think you could simply ride off and save Èowyn's life without facing some punishment?" Saruman's voice was louder now, angry. Gríma cowered back against the wall, finally raising his eyes to meet Saruman's gaze. Saruman was snarling at him, his glare so cold it might have frozen fire. Gríma's terror clearly showed in his eyes.

"Saruman, please!" he gasped, shrinking into the shadows in a futile attempt to hide. "I don't want her to die! I have - have to do something - please don't hurt me!" He held his hands in front of his face, waiting for some kind of spell, or a sound hit with the heavy black staff.

All he received was silence.

He waited for what seemed eons, and then at last Saruman spoke. "You expect me to reward you for failing to prevent Gandalf from ruining our plans and then trying to slink off and betray me?" he said icily.

"No!" Gríma cried, lowering his hands cautiously. "I just… I want Èowyn to live."

Saruman studied him carefully, more with interest now than with anger. "What would you do if I spared her?"

"Anything!" Gríma gasped, throwing himself at Saruman's feet. "Please, anything you ask…"

"Then kill Théoden."

Gríma looked up, startled. "My Lord?"

Saruman glared down at him, and then pulled him roughly to his feet. "Go to Helm's Deep. You'll arrive before my army does. Théoden and his men have escaped from my Wargs and have undoubtedly made it to Helm's Deep already. You will meet them there. Tell them you were terribly abused by me and that you had to return to aid them because you desired to bring me down."

Gríma swallowed hard. "They may not believe…" he started to say, but Saruman smacked him across the face with the staff. Gríma could hardly believe the sharp pain that slashed across his entire skull.

"You have the most extraordinary oral abilities I have seen in the race of Men," Saruman told him in a deadly soft tone. "Use them. If they attempt to kill you, I will not help you. And if you betray me, your punishment will be much worse than a slap on the face."

Gríma flinched. "How will this save Èowyn?" he demanded.

Saruman eyed him dangerously. "You must trust me," he said in his smooth, velvety voice. Without another word, he departed and slammed Gríma's door.

Gríma stared at the closed door and then spat at the floor. "Trust you? Never," he growled. He glanced at the bag lying on the floor. "But I will go to Helm's Deep."

His mind made up, he began to finish packing.


	7. Grima Prepares To Leave

**Author's Note: So I finally got around to updating. As you probably noticed, I took out the wonderfully pointless chapter 6. In the next few chapters Gríma and Èowyn are going to meet up again, and I will probably involve that particular little story in one of their accusatory conversations. Anyway, drop me a line and tell me what you think! I LOVE reviews and am oh-so-grateful to everyone who's sticking with this story! Thanks for all your wonderful counsel! You are all like our marvelous Gríma, and I mean that in the best way possible. ; )**

When Gríma had time to glance in the mirror later that day, he saw an ugly, crimson mark across one side of his face from Saruman's hit with the staff. He grimaced and muttered, "That will leave an unsightly bruise." He rushed to finish packing. As he shoved the final items he would require in his bag, it suddenly occurred to him that this was probably Saruman's intention. It would certainly make Gríma's story of abuse more plausible.

Later that same hour, Saruman came to the door and said, "All is in readiness. Are you prepared to depart?"

Gríma nodded slowly.

Saruman turned and motioned for Gríma to follow.

He personally walked Gríma to the stables where his horse was being kept. "When you are at Helm's Deep, you will use this to communicate with me." He handed over a simple book. Gríma flipped through it. It was blank.

"How will this give you my message?" he asked curiously, looking at Saruman with a puzzled expression.

"When you write in it, the message appears in a similar book I have in my study," Saruman replied. "Whatever I write in the book will also be sent to you." Saruman glared frigidly at him. "If you share this book with anyone else, I will see to it that you die - slowly and painfully. After watching Èowyn endure a similar torture, of course."

Gríma flinched at the mention of Èowyn's possible death. "Yes, my lord," he murmured, swallowing nervously.

Saruman turned to look straight ahead as they continued their walk. "I will alert you when the battle is about to begin," he said. "You must be prepared." Saruman stopped walking and faced him. "Take this." He held out a pendant with the White Hand upon it. "When the Uruk-hai see it, they will know you are one of my agents, and they will spare you." He handed him a second of these pendants. "Put this around Èowyn's neck while she sleeps before the battle. It will protect her as well."

"And if she does not sleep, my Lord?"

Saruman smirked, and handed Gríma a final item. "She will, Gríma. You will make certain of this." He dropped a vial into Gríma's open palm. "This is a sleeping draught. Allow Èowyn a sip before the battle. She'll fall asleep shortly after. She will remain in this state for a few hours. During that time, you will send me a message, detailing your exact location. I will cast a spell that you transport you here."

It sounded ridiculous to Gríma. "You can do this, my Lord?" he questioned.

Saruman's eyes narrowed. "You doubt me, slave?" he snarled.

Gríma backed away and groveled. "Never, my Lord!" he exclaimed. "Your powers are simply…_greater_ than I had ever imagined."

Saruman smirked and folded his arms. "My powers are certainly beyond the limited minds of Men," he said smoothly. He turned and began to walk once more.

Gríma cleared his throat and said, "Then what need have we of these pendants, my Lord, if your Uruk-hai will never even see us?"

"You may see a few," Saruman said simply. "And I do not trust in your fighting skills. If Èowyn could remain awake, we would have no difficulties. Alas, that is not possible."

Gríma nodded slowly, chagrined and a bit angry at himself for not being as capable as other Rohirrim were in battle. After a moment, he recovered his senses. He still had his own special abilities. He was more intelligent than almost the entire population of Rohan together, and he could speak so smoothly that anyone would believe him.

Anyone, except Èowyn.

Gríma sighed slightly. That was probably why he loved her; she could not be so easily fooled as others.

Saruman began to speak again. "Should you fail me, or betray me in this venture, you will die," he said icily. "You realize this, don't you?"

Gríma glanced at Saruman's cruel features. _I am likely to die anyway._ "Yes, my Lord."

"Good. Then I trust there will be no difficulties."

"None, my Lord."

Saruman nodded shortly.

They arrived at the stable, and Gríma placed his new acquisitions and a few things he had forgotten into his saddlebag. After a few moments, he turned and bowed to Saruman as a parting. Saruman made no sign at all. Gríma shuddered slightly, mounted his horse, and spurred out and away from Isengard.

_He was circling her in the shadows. She could feel his eyes on her, could hear his breathing in the corner of the room. She was not afraid of him, only… nervous. Curious. She knew why he was here. She knew why he followed her so often, when all the hall was asleep. He was like a predator, waiting to pounce. What frightened her was that she did not know exactly when he would attack._

_ "Come out," she challenged._

_ He did not. "No," he said softly, a hiss from the shadows._

_ Èowyn waited, searching the darkness around her, but seeing nothing. "You are trying to trap me," she said softly._

_ "You are already trapped." He said this with such confidence that it made Èowyn shudder._

_ "Gríma, you have already lost. Your intentions were revealed to us, and you were sent from my country forever. You cannot return," she said, trying to speak with as much poise as he had._

_ He laughed bitterly. "You think you are safe from me now?" he said. "Not even Saruman can keep you from me. But he is not trying to keep us apart. He will reunite us."_

_ "When?" Èowyn demanded._

_ "Soon," Gríma purred, still hidden - somewhere behind her. "So soon…"_

Èowyn awoke shaking - not from fear, nor anticipation, but a rather strange combination of both. She searched the dark corners of the room she slept in, but she saw nothing. She sighed heavily and dropped backwards on the bed. She stared at the gray stone ceiling miserably. Nightmares and dreams of Gríma had plagued her for many nights, but none had promised his return.

Èowyn had only had a few prophetic dreams. She had dreamed of her father in the weeks before he died - had, indeed, dreamed of saying good-bye to him the night that he had been killed. She had dreamed of her mother withering away as sorrow slowly broke her, and watched in horror as her dreams became reality. And then, there were these dreams, these random conversations with Lord Counsellor, who told her he was returning to claim her.

_Soon._

Èowyn shivered slightly, and attempted to sleep once more.


	8. Eowyn's Charge

**A/N: Sorry for taking so long to update. This chapter was something of a struggle for me, because I had to figure out how Gríma was going to get in and everything and how Èowyn was going to react to his presence. Plus, I was just writing _Incredibles_ fanfiction and there is a completely different sort of language used in _The Incredibles_ as compared to Tolkien's language in _Lord of the Rings._ So anyway, I'm hoping that doesn't show. Also, I decided that Aragorn's almost-dying and then seeing the Uruk-hai and warning Théoden sequence from the movie was completely unnecessary and I therefore acted as though it didn't happen. So Gríma is bringing them some new news when he tells them about the giant army. Anyway, hope you enjoy!**

Helm's Deep was a threatening presence, and Gríma loathed it already. He had visited it a few times, but not for any particular purpose, and he had hated it then, too - a monument to war and battle and senseless butchery, and that disgusting sense of Rohirric honor. Gríma glared at the fortress, focusing all of his hatred and anger and fear upon it, as though this would cause it to crumble.

_But Èowyn… beloved Èowyn is there._

Gríma sighed almost angrily. Èowyn. He would see her again soon, if he weren't killed upon sight. He'd be extremely lucky if Théoden was merciful.

Théoden had always been merciful to him, even when everyone else had hated him.

Gríma felt a stab of guilt at what the thought of what he had come to do. He had been surprised, of late, at how frequently guilt for his deeds had plagued him. He had done so many things in his lifetime, so many things worthy of remorse, but he had never regretted them. And now, to lament this…?

Gríma jabbed his heels into his horse's sides. His feelings were not important in this matter. He had come to save Èowyn, and to complete Saruman's mission, and he would do it, if only for the prize he would receive in the end.

His horse galloped swiftly across the plains and approached the gate. He reined in his horse upon arriving at the heavy wooden doors and looked up at the guards who stood atop it. They glared coldly at him. "What are you doing here, snake?" one of them snarled.

"Saruman is sending a vast army!" Gríma cried in his most frightened voice. "Ten thousand strong, at the very least! I came to warn you!"

"And to betray us," another guard hissed. "Why should we believe you? You lied to us before."

"Please!" Gríma begged fervently. "It is urgent that I speak with Théoden King on this matter!"

One of the guards was about to reply when Gríma heard a familiar voice - a voice he loved more than anything in the world.

"Gríma?" Èowyn appeared above the gate.

A sincere smile crossed Gríma's face. "My princess," he breathed.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, and although she sounded angry, she was slightly less harsh than the guards.

Gríma bowed slightly. "My Lady, Saruman is a cruel man. He had mistreated me until I thought I might lose my sanity. This mark you see upon my face is from him." Gríma motioned to the ugly, bluish-black bruise that had formed from Saruman's staff. "I could not remain with a master so wicked. I came to warn you and your uncle, and all the army of the Rohirrim, that Saruman has unleashed his Uruk-hai - a band ten thousand strong or more."

There was silence from above. Then Gríma heard Èowyn command, "Open the gates."

"But my Lady -!" one of the guards protested.

"Open the gates!" Èowyn repeated angrily. "Do you think my uncle would not wish to know this?"

"Someone else can tell him," the guard said. "Please, my Lady, he may be lying."

"We cannot risk that," Èowyn said firmly. She turned and disappeared from his view, but he still heard her call, "Open the gates for him!"

Reluctantly, the guards obeyed. Gríma entered, relieved that this first stage of his plan had fallen into place.

Once inside the gates, Gríma dismounted, extremely sore and tired from riding so long and so hard. He knew how abused and bedraggled he must have looked, which, he assumed, would only help his story's success.

He was obviously correct in this judgment. Èowyn - charming, beautiful, glorious Èowyn - was suddenly by his side, and she wrapped her arm around his shoulder - _oh, Èowyn, my precious, my love, thank you_ - and helped him to walk up the many stairs. "You and I," she said in a frigid tone, "Have much to discuss, Lord Counsellor."

"My Lady, please," Gríma began. "I beg your - "

"Don't play your twisted games with me, Gríma," she spat. "You aren't here to help us at all, are you?"

Gríma looked at her evenly. "If you believe that, then why did you allow me entrance to your fortress?"

She bit her lip and looked away. "I had to speak with you," she said carefully. "There are… many things that I need to know."

"Such as?" Gríma questioned, raising a nonexistent eyebrow.

Èowyn did not reply to his question. "I will take you to my uncle," she said stiffly.

"And afterwards, my sweet, sweet princess?"

"Do not address me so informally, snake," she spat. After a moment, she said, "I will speak with you later. Gamling will bring you to my quarters when Théoden King has finished with you."

Gríma bowed as best he could while still walking and being supported by Èowyn's arm. "As you wish, my Lady," he said.

They continued their walk in silence, but Gríma silently exulted the fact that Èowyn did not once remove her arm from his shoulders. _So even the lovely princess cares somewhat for the worm,_ Gríma thought with deep satisfaction. _I am glad of it._

They seemed to walk on forever, the silence heavy around them and cold stares following them wherever they walked. Gríma was aware of this, but made attempts to remain aloof; he was better than these peasants, yes, wiser and better educated, and he would not deign to acknowledge their feelings. He bowed only to those that he considered on a level with or above himself, and there were relatively few of those.

After a flight of stairs that were of such great length that Gríma suspected they would kill him before they reached the top, Théoden finally appeared, followed closely by the strangers that Gríma had seen in the Golden Hall and a few guards. Gríma straightened a little, and Èowyn's arm dropped from him. Gríma did his best to hide his disappointment, but it was so great that he guessed that it must have shown at least a little.

At first, Théoden did not notice him. He continued giving orders to his soldiers, a king once more. But after a moment, he glanced towards his niece and former counsellor and stopped dead. "Gríma," he said icily.

Gríma bowed deeply. "My liege," he murmured, aware of the extremely dangerous position he was in.

"I did warn you that if we met again I would kill you, did I not?" Théoden spat.

Gríma dropped to one knee. "Do what you must, my liege," he said heavily. "But I have news of the utmost importance. Before you kill me, you should at least hear me."

Théoden glared at him, but glanced warily to Èowyn.

Èowyn came forward, never groveling in the slightest. "He claims that Saruman is sending an army, my Lord," she said. "A great army - large enough to destroy us. At least, I believe that was his implication at the gate."

"Why do you bring us this news?" Théoden demanded. "Do you turn on every master who has the misfortune to have you in his service?"

"My liege, _please_," Gríma practically whimpered. "You do not understand what Saruman is like. He is violent, and cruel, and heartless."

"And you are not?" Théoden said frigidly.

Gríma lifted his head. "That should have been made obvious," he said in a low voice, "By the prize which I was offered."

Èowyn blushed deeply at this, and Théoden looked grave. "The method by which you made to gain this prize showed your true character," he said, looking at his sister-daughter. "I do not trust him."

"My liege, I beg of you to listen to me!" Gríma pleaded. "I know what I have done is unforgivable in the eyes of your people, but I did not come here to betray you again!" Ah, how easily the lie slipped from his lips. "I came to warn you, and to aid you if I could! Do you not see the mark that Saruman himself left upon my face? Mayhap I was deserving of such abuse, but even so, one can only take so much punishment!"

Even the cold glares of the peasants softened slightly at the sight of the bruise crossing Gríma's face. It made sense, of course, that he would flee from such harshness. And why would the traitor not do the same to his true master as he had done to Théoden previously?

Théoden seemed to think on this for several moments. The strangers stood silently behind him, staring down at Gríma's kneeling figure. He returned their gazes one by one - the dwarf, who had held him down; the Elf, who fought with such grace and could clearly see so much; and the Man, who had saved his life at the Golden Hall. Gríma silently wondered where the wizard could possibly be, but put the thought aside. He had had enough of wizards. Gríma would not have been at all sad to learn that Gandalf was not present.

Gríma's attention was drawn back to the present when Théoden reached down to help him rise once more. "I do not believe," Théoden said softly, "That you are lying to me. This does not, however, mean that I trust you. You will have to earn that."

Gríma bowed once more. "I fully intend to do so, my liege," he said.

Théoden did not smile. "You will be guarded at all times, to ensure that you do nothing to harm us," he told Gríma. "You will never be left alone until I feel that you are trustworthy. For the time being, you will go into Helm's Deep and remain inside the fortress during battle."

Everyone looked surprised to hear this. "My lord, should he not fight?" Èowyn questioned, bewildered.'

"It would be too easy for him to betray us in battle," Théoden said. "We would be distracted and unable to stop him if he chose to open the inner fortress to the Uruk-hai."

"But could he not do the same from the inside?" Èowyn demanded. "You will not be able to spare the men to guard him!"

Théoden glanced at her and said calmly, "That is why I am entrusting _you_ with this duty."

Both Gríma and Èowyn gaped at him. "But my Lord -!" Èowyn protested.

"Èowyn," Théoden said firmly, "You have a duty to me and to your people. I know how you long to fight. I cannot allow you to join the battle, but you can do this - for me. I trust you."

Èowyn glared at him angrily, but said nothing further against this. Gríma did not object, either; time alone with Èowyn was something he had previously only dreamed about. Surely Théoden knew that?

Then again, maybe Théoden did know and was simply using that to his advantage. Gríma could not determine what Théoden thought he was doing by charging Èowyn with this task. He didn't like that. Typically he knew what his opponents planned to do, but the meaning behind this was too ambiguous.

Èowyn finally spoke, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen over the small group. "Very well, then," she said flatly. She turned to Gríma and said, "Shall we go, then? As I said before, I have many things to discuss with you."

Gríma bowed slightly to her. "Whatever my Lady desires," he said, almost mockingly. She glared icily at him and then turned away. Gríma was left with little choice but to follow.


	9. Questions and Answers

**A/N: Gah! I'm a horrible person! I haven't updated this fanfic since July! I beg your forgiveness:falls on knees: Well, by way of explanation, let me say that over the summer I got into _The Incredibles_ and have since been inspired mostly with Incredibles fanfic, and thus my poor G/E fandom has gotten rather neglected. Recently I've been getting back into LOTR mode, so hopefully updates will be coming more quickly now. Anyway, hope this chapter is enjoyable to all of my G/E friends, although I suspect my language is getting slightly more archaic than it has been in the previous chapters. A good thing, and a bad thing; it could possibly interrupt the flow. :shrugs: Ah, well. Drop me a review and tell me what you think! I live to serve you all: )**

- - - - - - - - - -

Helm's Deep had a history of sorrow, as most fortresses of war do, and the flat gray stone walls conveyed that sorrow to every man, woman, and child residing within the dismal place. With war and battle and certain death approaching, it was hard to be cheery; but even so, the walls brought on an unnatural depression that Gríma did not appreciate, especially so since his mood was typically foul to begin with.

He should not, he considered, have felt so melancholy at this particular moment. Was he not about to achieve the prize he had so longingly sought for so many years of his existence? Should this not have found him in some lighter mood, rather than in the black unhappiness that fate found him in now?

It was the image of betrayal crossing Èowyn's face that was angering him so. She had not looked at him once since they had met with her uncle at the Keep; but he could imagine most vividly the look of utter hatred and revilement that he would see deep in her eyes when she discovered that he had betrayed her and her countrymen - _his_ countrymen - once again. She would never love him then, but for a wizard's spell; and Gríma was no longer sure he was quite willing to pay that price.

"Your silence unnerves me, counsellor."

Gríma's eyes darted ahead once more, startled out of his thoughts by Èowyn's words. "It seemed you did not wish to speak to me, my Lady," he said softly. "I did not wish to intrude upon your thoughts."

"Indeed?" Èowyn said coldly. "In elder days fears of intruding upon my thoughts and time alone seemed rarely to concern you. You cannot have changed so much since last we spoke."

Gríma made a negligent motion with his hand. "My Lady, you would be surprised how certain events can so profoundly change a man's character that you would not know him, were you to see him."

"I know you when I see you," Èowyn said bitterly. "And I do not like what I see."

"You are among many, my Lady," Gríma said sardonically; "My face has been greeted by little pleasure even from my own mother."

"I imagine she is ashamed of you, and of what you have become," Èowyn said.

"Ah, you refer to my bargain with Saruman," Gríma said, quickening his pace so that he might walk beside her. "You should not have been so astonished by it, my Lady. Your brother guessed it rather more quickly than you did, I am afraid. And you always struck me as the cleverer of the two."

"You have no love for my brother."

"You would have need to be concerned if I held such love of your brother as I hold for you, Èowyn."

Èowyn stopped in her tracks and turned rapidly to face him, her face flushed and eyes glowing with a passionate rage. "How dare you speak so?" she demanded, and though her voice was low her words held great power. "You love me not; if you did, you long ago would have ceased your agreement with the White Wizard, knowing how deeply it would wound me!"

"Little that I did ever attracted my princess's notice," Gríma said rather resentfully. "How was I to win the love of such a one as you without aid from another?"

Èowyn turned from him, her eyes turning anywhere but his face. "You could have done it," she said softly.

"Indeed," Gríma retorted scathingly. "And with what, my princess? Inane tokens of my affection, as other men did often bring you in the days before my power? Perhaps a letter or a note expressing my love for you in the sweetest words? Such things my princess would have ignored. Those are the trinkets of boys and younger men who would as soon have you as they would have a whore. No, you deserved something more spectacular, my Lady. I always believed it so."

"And by 'spectacular' you mean a wizard's folly and lies," Èowyn said, her voice shaking with emotion.

"No," Gríma said, almost wearily. "There again you misjudge me. No, I sought Saruman in the hopes of learning a wizard's art, the better to turn your heart and eyes to me. A mere scholar was not enough for a princess; wealth was not enough to satisfy your wild and untamable heart. And what use is power to a princess, when already she has almost anything that she can ask for at her fingertips, other than her own freedom? Freedom I could not offer you, not then; and so I sought to find it for you. A wizard's abilities could combine all my talents to the greatest betterment of my person; and with a staff in my hands I might have been able - or so I thought then - to allow you the freedom you so desired - the ability to roam where you would, and battle with your countrymen, and never fear rebuke from others in our land."

Èowyn seemed startled by the revelation that his original intentions had been so pure. She studied him curiously with her brilliant green eyes. Gríma gazed steadily back, allowing himself briefly to drown in their bright depths.

"All I ever wanted, my princess, was to help you," he told her softly. "But you did not - will not - believe it. And thus the wizard's evil was begun. He convinced me that the only way to win you was within his power, and that my country must first be brought under his rule, before you could be mine. You will, I trust, forgive a lonely man for being only human, and thusly falling into the trap of one who should have been much more than human."

Èowyn continued to meet his gaze a moment longer, and then turned away again. "I still doubt you," she said quietly, and though her words were soft they were like the stabbing of a thousand knives to him.

He glared at her furiously. "Doubt me?" he repeated fiercely. "You cannot - you will never - understand what it is like to live as I have! You cannot know what it is like to love as I love you and be turned away a thousand times when both you and I know that only I could ever fully understand you! You do not know the pain, the agony I have endured, year after endless year, suffering through this pitiful existence, waiting for some sort of light to penetrate the darkness! And then, to find that light - only to watch it slip away…" He held out his hands and closed his fingers in front of him, staring almost blankly at the gesture, as though even he did not fully comprehend its meaning.

If he had looked at Èowyn, he might have seen her expression soften. But he did not; and after a moment she turned away. "And by the same token, you cannot comprehend what it is like to watch both your parents slip into lifelessness before your very eyes," she said, tears coming unbidden. "You do not understand the horror of watching the only man you have been able to admire as a father and friend slipping into senility and agedness. You do not know what it is like to see the frail state of your country and know that it could be so much more - and know that someone you once trusted may be causing that fragility."

The last phrase caught his attention, and he looked up from where his eyes had been resting. "You never trusted me," he said, but the words barely masked a hidden flame of hope.

"Oh, but I did, once," Èowyn said. "When I was very young, and when we first met. I trusted you then. I counted you among my friends when I was a girl. But it is amazing how rapidly things change when a girl grows to womanhood."

Gríma smiled ever so slightly. "Ah, my Lady, you do not understand the minds of men," he said gently. "It is to be expected that men will react differently to a young girl than to a woman suitably marriageable - especially one so extraordinary as yourself."

Èowyn made an attempt to hide it, but Gríma still caught the blush that spread across her cheek. "It was never an easy to change for me to adjust to," she said. "I had once been treated as the equal of my brother and my cousin, and suddenly, I was… different from them. I was treated as a fragile ornament that men feared they might break if they spoke too harshly or trod too hard upon it, and I hated it. I hated feeling as though I were too delicate, too fragile to exist on my own. I am a Shieldmaiden - I am no fragile decoration for a king's court!"

"And anyone who knows you well knows this, too, my Èowyn," Gríma said in a low voice. "This I have always known."

Èowyn sighed heavily and turned her eyes towards the Horn of Helm Hammerhand. "They send me to guard you," she said. "To do a duty safe inside these walls - but I could fight! I could be of more use than this in this war!"

"I am not of enough importance to warrant my lady's skills in battle, then?" Gríma said dryly.

Èowyn glanced at him. "I doubt you will have any need of a guard," she said. "Saruman's orcs will never break the barrier, and even if they do, I will do as little as I may to defend you."

The words stung, but Gríma did his best to make light of it. "Were I to die by my Lady's hand, I would not be unhappy," he said with a mocking bow.

When he rose, Èowyn was smiling ever so slightly, the corners of her perfect lips turned barely upwards. A smile from her, no matter how small, was rare, and Gríma was grateful for it. She turned, the rare and precious smile fading away, and said, "You should not scoff at me. Your life is in my hands, you realize."

"My life has ever been in my Lady's sweet hands," Gríma replied. "You only now have excuse to recognize it."

Èowyn began to walk once more, and silence descended upon the pair. Gríma followed her without objection, and wondered what thoughts were in Èowyn's mind.

After a brief walk across the wall of the Keep, they arrived at the main fortress. Èowyn pushed open the heavy door and entered it, turning sharply to the right. "My quarters are here," she said. "Undoubtedly you and I will remain here this night."

"Not the Caves, my Lady?" Gríma questioned in surprise.

"I would not go to the Caves, and you certainly cannot force me to do so," Èowyn said. "We will be well barricaded here."

"As you wish it, my princess," Gríma muttered, but he was clearly unhappy with this choice. Then again… here they would be alone. And was that not what he desired?

"You said you wished to speak with me," he said aloud, to avoid betraying himself to her. "What matter did you wish to discuss with your humble servant?"

"Your groveling disgusts me," Èowyn said sharply.

"Be that as it may, Èowyn, that is surely not what you so desired to say," Gríma replied calmly. "I would have you unburden yourself."

Èowyn snorted, but said nothing more for a while. Finally, she stopped walking and opened a door on the right side of the hall. "In here," she said, motioning him to walk before her. He entered and looked around the room. It was small and humbly furnished - a small bed, a few chairs, a table. It was undoubtedly luxurious compared to other rooms in this place; but Gríma had rather looked forward to greater comforts than these. Orthanc was hardly a place where luxury abounded; and he had sorely missed the few comforts that Meduseld had had to offer. He satisfied himself with a small wooden chair in the corner of the room, and dropped into it gratefully. His long ride and all the walking about Helm's Deep had made him wearier than he had known, until he had chance to stop and rest. Now he doubted that he could ever rise from this hard wooden chair again.

"You seem tired," Èowyn said, a small, worried frown creasing her otherwise perfect features. "Do you desire anything?"

Gríma shot her a rather penetrating look. "Indeed," he said, implying much more in that single word than he had in any phrase he'd ever spoken to Èowyn.

She pursed her lips and said, rather disgustedly, "That does _not_ include me, my Lord."

Gríma sighed and closed his eyes, hiding his head in his hands. "My Lady should speak more clearly, then," he said. "If you meant to ask if I needed rest, then my answer is that rest can wait. I would not mind water, if it is available; if not, do not trouble yourself searching for it. You have yet to discuss with me what is weighing on your mind, and I can see that it weighs rather heavily. Speak, Èowyn. I would rather hear your words sooner than later."

Èowyn looked away and stared at the blank stone wall for a moment or two. Then, she turned and dropped onto the bed, studying her hands as though they held the answer to a great riddle. "If you desired me so much," she said tremulously, "Then why did you not tell me so?"

Gríma looked up indignantly. "Everything that I did should have told you so, my Lady!" he said sharply. "In every word, every action, every glance, every gift I ever gave to you, it should have been quite obvious!"

"It would have been, indeed, had I been older," Èowyn said. "You forget how young I was when first you made your bargain. I cannot have been over fourteen years."

"A perfectly marriageable age. Younger than you were then have been wed before."

"That may be as may be, Lord Gríma. But _I_ was little versed in the desires of men; my brother forbade discussion of it, and he it was whom I sought for advice. He allowed no man or boy to set his heart on me; and when he no longer protected me, it was you who took his place, guarding me jealously against any invader who might threaten your claim to my hand. And still I did not understand what had changed between us. I knew that something in your behavior was different; but I did not know what; and by the time I realized its cause it was far too late for you to turn back. You should have spoken to me, or to my Uncle."

Gríma laughed bitterly. "Ah, your Uncle," he said, his words so cold they might have frozen fire. "Perhaps I should have. And then, perhaps I did."

Èowyn looked up, startled. "You spoke to him?" she repeated.

"Oh, yes," Gríma said, glaring at the wall as though it was to blame for whatever crime Théoden had committed. "I spoke to him once of my love for you. He forbade me to speak of it again. He told me I was not worthy of your hand; that I, a scholar and his most loyal advisor - ah, do not protest, my princess; for then I was indeed loyal - that I was too weak, too pitiful, too undeserving of your light. But no other suitor understood you as I did; and no other man loved you as I did. I thought, perhaps, that seeing this your Uncle might at last give in; but he did not. A streak of stubborn pride runs in the house of Èorl; and it is most strong in Théoden King. His folly was in denying you to me; and mine in loving you in the first place."

Èowyn was silent for a moment, considering his words. "You knew what you did was evil," she said after a moment. "Why did you agree to it?"

"It seemed everyone already considered me evil; I did not see the use in denying my darker nature any longer," Gríma said with a fatalistic shrug. "And for your hand… eternal damnation was a most acceptable end, if you would but love me for one moment."

"There could have been others."

"There always could have been, my Lady," he said wearily. "But there were not. Oh, do not think I did not seek another to be the object of my affection; but they were dimmed in comparison to you. Mayhap _you_ do not believe that one has a single soul mate on this Middle Earth, but I cannot believe that such a one does not exist, when I have loved you as I do for so long."

Éowyn was quiet for a moment longer. Finally, she spoke again. "You murdered Théodred," she said. It was not a question. She was simply seeking confirmation of a fact she already knew.

Gríma looked away from her. "Yes," he replied. "I did. He was in the way of Saruman's plans."

Éowyn might have been angrier to hear this, had she not already arrived at the same conclusion, pondered it heavily in the dark hours when she should have slept, and finally adjusted to it. "I suspected as much," she said simply. "This you did not do out of love for me."

Gríma opened his mouth to protest, but closed it when he realized she was right. "No, I suppose I didn't," he said, turning his gaze blankly to the floor. "It was Saruman's command, and my own vengeance. Your cousin held no love for me."

"No," Éowyn agreed. "He intended to kill you when he returned."

Gríma did not seem surprised to hear this. "Ah, yes," he said somewhat bitterly. "An assassination attempt. I knew it would come at some time. In fact, I was rather surprised when neither of them did attempt my murder." He turned his keen eyes to her. "You did not warn me."

"I did not condone it," she said simply. "As I do not condone your murder of my cousin. But one of you would have died, one way or another; I would have been a fool not to see that."

Gríma smiled mirthlessly. "This war has made cynics of us all - even you, whom I had so hoped to leave untainted," he said.

"Perhaps you should have considered that before you made your bargain with the White Wizard," Éowyn said harshly.

Silence hung heavily between them for a moment. Then, a knock came at Éowyn's door, heavy - an armored man, no doubt. "My Lady?" Gamling's voice drifted through the thick wood. "Your Uncle has commanded that you and your… _charge_ be seen safely to the Caves. We should go at once. The light is failing us."

Éowyn glared at the door, as though by doing so she could remain nearer to the battleground; but at last she relented and rose. "We come," she called, and then turned to Gríma. "We must go, then," she said, a touch of ice lacing her voice.

Gríma rose reluctantly from the wooden chair. "The Valar know I would hate to reject the command of my princess," he said, bowing sardonically. "We shall be on our way, then."

The pair walked into the hall in silence. Gamling was awaiting them, eyeing Gríma with a furious hatred. "I do not see how you have the fortune to remain out of battle," he said.

Gríma met Gamling's comment with cold disdain. "You would be advised to leave these matters to your King," he said. "He is rather more intelligent than you, and knows better the affairs of his state."

Gamling huffed, infuriated, but although he clearly wished to say more, he turned on his heel and stormed off. "This way," he said through gritted teeth.

The unenthusiastic pair behind him followed.


	10. Two Sides to Every Coin

The caves were vast, dark, and dismal, to both the renegade counsellor and his fair warrior princess - he because the aura of terror and the heavy weight of widows' tears on the glittering stone was so thick about him he could feel it pressing him down, and she because she had no desire to be trapped below when she so longed to do battle alongside the men. Gamling seemed not to observe his lady's despair, and after bowing in homage to her and spitting at Gríma's feet, he turned and abandoned them.

Gríma looked about him and noticed many women glaring icily in his direction - most likely questioning why he had returned, and why he would be permitted to remain safely below while their husbands were dying above their very heads. He felt a small measure of pity for them and their children, many of whom might soon become fatherless. It was clear that none of these victims felt any such pity for him. Gríma stepped closer to Éowyn as though to seek protection from their hatred in her. She turned her frigid eyes to him as she felt him near. "These women's husbands may soon be dead - the cause of your wicked treachery. And will you still claim that you made such a bargain out of love for me? Am I such a prize that you would destroy the lives of all your countrymen to have me?"

Gríma met her gaze evenly. "I do not claim it to be just or kind, my Lady," he said softly. "But I would die, I would kill, I would do anything asked of me if I would have your love for but an instant."

If Gríma had expected these words to soften his princess' heart, he had sorely misjudged her. Her green eyes flashed with anger and her hands clenched into fists. "I suppose you find such words romantic, snake," she hissed. "But I believe you would find your purpose better served by more loving actions than death." Furiously she turned away and went to speak with a group of the other women.

One of them nodded towards Gríma as Éowyn approached. "Why has _he_ come back?" she demanded spitefully.

"He came to warn us for Saruman's army's approach," Éowyn told them, finding a pile of rusty swords beside them. She lifted one and swung it a few times, testing it.

"More likely that he returned to take you," another of the women said, nodding disgustedly towards him. "See how he stares at you wherever you go. His eyes follow your body's every move."

Éowyn spun with the sword and pointed it in Gríma's direction. He smiled and held up his hands in mock surrender. She frowned at this gesture and turned away. "He will never claim me," she told her companions. "He is a treacherous snake. I will not allow him to touch me."

"I doubt very much that your permission makes a difference to such as he," a younger woman said wryly. "He hardly seems the type of man who accepts rejection. He comes to open the caves to Saruman's army, and once all the Rohirrim are crushed and destroyed, he will have his way with you."

Éowyn did her best not to shudder at this thought. "Saruman's army may be strong, but we will be the stronger," she said. "We are the Horse Lords. We will fight unto death."

"Then death awaits us all," the young women said bitterly, and a desperate, unhappy silence fell upon the circle.

- - - - - - - - -

Gríma paced impatiently beside the glittering stone wall where Éowyn had left him. She was disobeying her uncle's orders, he though angrily - but he doubted that she cared much. His death would mean little to the fair Lady Éowyn, if it were to come; but it would not. Saruman's army would crush this fortress like a rock crushes a spider, and he and his prize would be the only survivors left to tell the tale.

Gríma smiled rather self-deprecatingly. _That is a lie, the greatest lie that's ever been told you, you cowardly bastard,_ he thought. _Saruman has no need of you any longer, and he will not reward you for failed work. Your death is all that awaits you here, no matter what claim the wizard makes._ He could feel the rage swelling inside him, and he tried to swallow it painfully, tried to hide his fury at his own cowardice and weakness.

"My Lord?"

Gríma turned, startled, and saw a young girl standing behind him. Apparently, she had no idea who he was. "Yes?" he asked cautiously.

The girl tilted her head slightly to the side, studying him curiously. "You are Gríma Wormtongue, are you not?"

So she _did_ know. Gríma sighed heavily and looked away from her. "Yes," he said. "I am that same miserable traitor."

The girl looked surprised. "You don't sound very pleased about it," she said.

Gríma chuckled mirthlessly. "It hardly brings me any pleasure to be hated by all my countrymen," he told her.

The girl shrugged. "My mother believes there is good in everyone," she stated.

"Your mother is a very generous women," Gríma said dryly. "Few would say that of me."

"She told me that you were a great healer," the girl said, shifting from foot to foot.

Gríma looked at her once more, stunned. "I am accomplished enough," he concurred. "But I was not well known for my healing skill."

"My mother knew your mother when you were smaller," the girl told him, twisting a piece of blonde hair around her finger. "She heard you were here, anyway, and sent me to fetch you. She says there's a woman who is in desperate need of your aid, if you are willing to offer it."

"Willing enough," Gríma said, although he felt the sting at the knowledge that he was not expected to offer assistance to anyone but himself any longer. "What is the trouble?"

The girl shrugged. "I know not," she said. "But you should come with me. My mother said it was urgent."

"You should not have wasted all this time," Gríma said sternly. "Take me to her."

The girl nodded and led him obediently away.

- - - - - - - - -

Éowyn was startled and horrified when she noticed Gríma had disappeared. She did not want to admit to herself that this was largely her fault, and that if he allowed Saruman's orcs into the caves, the deaths of these women would be on her head. She ran about the caves, seeking him frantically, praying for his reappearance. She dared not ask any of the other women if they had seen him, for then they too would know of what she had done.

_You worthless, stupid girl!_ she chided herself furiously as tears stung her eyes. _You should never have let the horrible wretched traitorous son of a dog out of your sight! These people depended on you! Your Uncle depended on you to guard him and keep him away from Saruman's forces, and look what you've done out of your own selfish pride!_

She was still searching a frantic hour later when she heard the heavy clomping sounds above her head. She looked up as the ground shuddered and guessed that Saruman's army had arrived. "No!" she whispered in horror, as the women around her looked up.

"Oh, my Lady!" one women whimpered in terror. "What do we do?"

Éowyn shook her head and fled from that cavern, unable to give an answer. She did not know what to do. She had to find Gríma, she had to keep him away from the door and protect her people-

"I think if my princess were to turn around, she might find what she is so desperately seeking."

Éowyn spun to face Gríma, relief and fury written across her features. "You wretched little bastard!" she swore. "How _dare_ you disappear like that? I cannot trust you alone - " She stopped when she saw what he was doing. "What…?" she questioned.

Gríma was kneeling on the stony ground with a circle of women and girls. In the center of the ring was a hugely pregnant woman, who was weeping in pain. Gríma looked up at Éowyn and said quietly, "The stress and fear of this situation has caused her to deliver too early, I think. Her niece was sent after me to assist in the birth. If you want to be of some use, you can find me some water and clean rags."

Éowyn nodded, still surprised, and then turned and ran in search of Gríma's requested items. Fortunately, these were hardly difficult to find, especially with the aid of other women. She returned after a brief period with several other women, heated water, and rags that had been washed in the warm water.

Éowyn knelt beside Gríma, squeezing her way into the already tight circle. She was pressed rather tightly against Gríma, and silently realized that she'd never been so close to him before. She glanced at his face to see how her close proximity was affecting him, but he was too focused upon his charge to notice - or, at least, to _show_ that he noticed.

"How else may I help?" she asked softly.

He turned his icy blue eyes to hers and said, "Hold her hand, if you would. Birth is a rather painful process, as I have come to understand it; and it helps to physically feel that there is more support than the healer's present."

Éowyn nodded and held the woman's hand. The woman gripped it tightly and squeezed it as she gave another cry of pain - a cry that came simultaneously with the sound of several crashes from up above. Éowyn looked up and murmured fearfully, "Ladders?"

Gríma turned briefly back to her. "Éowyn, focus your attention," he said sharply. "If you do not feel capable of this than I have no further use for you and you may go."

Éowyn glared at him in startled anger. He had _never_ spoken to her that way before! "I will stay," she said, her cold eyes daring him to object.

He did not. "Good," he said shortly, and turned back to the woman before him.

Éowyn watched him with growing interest and respect as the weary hours dragged on. The sounds of battle were loud above them, and where all the women looked and whispered in fear, Gríma was focused and calm with his patient, whispering soothingly with that hypnotic voice that had enchanted the ears of the King and helping to ease the birth along. Éowyn wondered why so few had known of this aspect of Gríma's abilities - and why he would have been so loath to use them during his time at Edoras. She supposed, rather bitterly, that he had stopped feeling the pain of the rest of his people when Saruman's hold was strong with him, and therefore had stopped aiding all but himself.

Finally, after hours of miserable waiting and fearing, the baby was born - a boy. Several of the women took him away to be cleaned up and to find a cleaner blanket to place him, while Gríma slumped back against the stone behind him, exhausted. "I should like some water, if we still have any," he said, and Éowyn rushed to give him some. He smiled at her over the brim of a dipper as he sipped and said, "Why, my Lady, I've hardly seen you so anxious to serve me. What brings this sudden change of heart?"

Éowyn narrowed her eyes and turned away. "You worked hard," she said coldly. "I brought you water because you asked for it. Unlike you I give readily to those in need."

"It seems to me that Lord Counsellor is more ready to give than any of the Rohirrim have given him credit for," a woman still seated by them said, raising a single eyebrow. "I am Dagorwyn. Gríma's mother and I were friends, before his father murdered her."

Éowyn drew in a sharp breath and stared at Gríma. "Your father murdered your mother?"

"Oh, yes," Gríma said coldly. "I was fifteen at the time. She finally decided to protect the only child she'd birthed that lived, and my father killed her for it." He shrugged slightly and said, "But no one trusted _my_ word. _I_ was the great Gálmód's bastard son, who made trouble simply because I could. No, no, in Edoras' official records you will find that my mother died of a sudden illness. Not uncommon in Rohan, and a rather easy excuse to hide something much more unpleasant."

Éowyn stared at him in horror. "Why didn't you stop him?" she whispered.

Gríma looked as though he might erupt with his own rage. Fortunately, Dagorwyn laid her hand on Gríma's arm and said, "He tried to, Éowyn, but he was unarmed and his father was not. There was not much to be done about it."

Éowyn shook her head in disbelief. "Surely my Uncle would have listened to you?"

Gríma shook his head. "No one listened to me then," he said. "And no one would listen to me now. Not that it matters. My father was killed in a battle with the orcs years ago."

Éowyn shivered, still unable to understand how this injustice could have been done. "I'm sorry," she said softly, laying her hand on Gríma's arm.

He looked at her, startled, and he stared at her in seeming disbelief, as though he did not dare trust that Éowyn was truly touching him of her own accord. She smiled slightly and glanced down at the ground, drawing her hand away. "You must be tired," she said to him, rising to her feet. "I'll find you some blankets, and then you may rest. You had a long journey and now you've assisted with a birth. After the battle you must help us with the wounded as well."

"I will do what I may, my Lady," Gríma said, his hand now clutching the spot on his opposite arm where Éowyn's fingers had touched him. "But… I will not deny that I am weary…"

Éowyn nodded and went in search of blankets. When she returned, he was already asleep.


	11. Blood, Sweat, and Tears

**A/N: Gasp! I'm actually updating! Isn't that astounding? And you should all be excited because this is a totally awesome chapter where Éowyn AND Gríma get to kick some ass! So yes, as usual, please leave me a review… reviews make me happy inside… and you want to make me happy, don't you:puppy eyes:**

- - - - - - - - -

Gríma slept long and hard and dreamlessly that night - or day, as it was impossible to know in the darkness of the Glittering Caves, which were lit only by torches. Éowyn had covered him with a coarse blanket to keep him warm and protected from the dampness of the stone around him. Although he had fallen asleep leaning against the hard stone wall, he had slowly begun to sink against her. Where once she would have pushed him off she allowed his head to rest on her shoulder, watching him sleep with renewed fascination.

He was _different_, she realized; different than she had thought him to be, at the very least. No one, least of all her, had ever understood him for everything he was. Éowyn doubted that she had even truly begun to grasp fully Gríma's personality, but seeing him assist in the birth of the little boy had shown her that Gríma was certainly not all evil by any means. He had numerous abilities that, when he so desired, he used in the aid of others - an admirable quality, however rarely it manifested itself - and what was more, he had suffered, just as all the other Rohirrim had been suffering for many long years.

Éowyn had always known life must have been something of a struggle for Gríma, but she had never considered the effects that such struggles tended to have on one's personality. Her own life had been rife with difficulty; her parent's death when she was seven years old had instilled such grief and somberness into her that she had never fully recovered, despite the efforts of those around her to bring her happiness once more.

Gríma had seemed a match to her in that, at least; he rarely smiled, save when he looked upon her, and he carried about him a certain gravity and an aura of loathing that drove off even the most sympathetic of the court. He deplored people, preferring to be alone when others would have sought comfort in the bright warmth of a crowd; he despised them because of the way others had treated them, and Gríma, despite his hatred for such a trait, was rather quick to judge. His isolation had concerned Éowyn since she was but a girl; and when he noticed her concern, and returned it with something much more fierce and passionate, she had grown to fear him. She, too, had abandoned and judged him in some way. It was not a particularly surprising revelation; but Éowyn was angry with herself anyway for mistreating anyone so - even Gríma.

It was strange, she thought, how easily men could be dehumanized. But she was slowly coming to understand that Gríma was just a man - a man who had made a terrible choice, but human nonetheless. Besides, he had returned to aid his people, had he not?

That was under suspicion, however. He might have come to aid Saruman in winning the battle, and to claim his prize. But Éowyn found that increasingly difficult to believe as she looked at the sleeping man resting against her. He looked - not _innocent_, but peaceful, at the very least. Éowyn liked the way he looked as he slept.

She could almost love him then.

- - - - - - - - -

Gríma awoke slowly and painfully - mostly because of the awkward position he had slept in, but also because of a pervading sense of warmth and happiness. It was rare that Gríma ever felt any sort of joy, and he was reluctant to awaken fully and ruin his current state of bliss.

A few moments longer, however, and Gríma knew he could not sleep any longer. He opened his eyes, blinking in the torchlight, and adjusted himself to his surroundings. _Helm's Deep - Glittering Caves - Éowyn - Éowyn?_ He was startled when he realized he had been sleeping on Éowyn's shoulder. She had her hand resting lightly on his arm, and she was staring at a flickering torch, seeming to think deeply. Gríma sat up quickly and pulled away, astounded that Éowyn would allow him such impropriety. Only in moments of emotional instability had he ever been able to coax her into allowing him a few perfect, brief caresses.

_Interesting…_

Éowyn glanced at him as she felt him stir, and she smiled softly at him. "You slept long," she said quietly. "You were exhausted."

Gríma nodded slowly, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "How long have I slept?" he questioned.

"Seven hours, maybe nine."

Gríma looked surprised. "I have not rested so long in years."

Éowyn frowned in concern, an adorable pout that nearly left Gríma breathless wanting to kiss her. "You need more rest, my Lord," she chided gently. "You will wear yourself too thin someday."

Gríma shrugged. "I am plagued by dreams, my Lady, and I would rather be awake than face the monsters in my mind," he said, shuddering slightly.

Éowyn's concern seemed to grow. "What troubles your nights, Gríma?" she questioned.

Gríma was about to open his mouth to respond when screams erupted from the opposite end of the caverns. He and Éowyn leapt simultaneously to their feet and ran towards the sound to discover the trouble. "What's happened?" Éowyn gasped out when they arrived at the front chamber.

"Orcs, my Lady!" a frantic woman cried in horror, clutching Éowyn's arm. "There are orcs in the caves!"

- - - - - - - - -

Éowyn turned instantly to look at Gríma, betrayal, fear, and anger flashing across her face. "Gríma, you didn't…?" she asked, and the hurt in her eyes caused Gríma more pain than words could ever express.

"Éowyn," he said in exasperation, "I have been sleeping on your shoulder for the past seven hours at least. When would I have had time to open the gateway?"

Éowyn was about to reply when another woman interjected, "They broke through the door with a battering ram, my Lady. We were firmly secured before. Much as I do not wish to defend such a traitor as Wormtongue, he has done nothing."

Relief flashed across Éowyn's face, and then evaporated into a deathly serious look of concentration. "This threat must be dealt with," she said.

No sooner had the words passed her lips than several orcs appeared from behind several stone apertures. They were swinging their swords in all directions, taking many women down with them. Éowyn's hand flew to her sword and before Gríma could stop her, she had charged off into the battle.

"You must go help her," one woman said, pushing him towards the door. "You are one of the only men remaining here, and certainly one of the only ones fit enough to fight."

Gríma glanced over his figure and said miserably, "You consider _this_ fit?"

"Prove yourself to be something other than a coward," another woman said haughtily. "Go!"

Gríma sighed in resignation and cautiously followed after Éowyn. He was not keen to battle against Uruk-hai that were easily twice his size, but, as one of the small band of orcs took a swing at Éowyn and nearly slashed her arm off, Gríma became more concerned for her life. Gríma could fight, if he had to - not well, but he was capable - with the correct incentive. Éowyn's life was, at that moment, the correct incentive.

Always more apt to choose a less direct method, Gríma had taught himself the art of throwing daggers. It was a simple, effective way in which to defeat an enemy from a distance. No one need ever know to whom the dagger belonged; all he needed was the right place to hide and decent aim, and his victim was finished. It was the only art of battle he had ever bothered with, to the disappointment of his father and the mockery of his peers; but he was skilled enough to kill, and that was what was currently significant to the issue at hand.

He pulled one of two special hidden daggers from his belt and watched the Uruks carefully, waiting from behind a pillar of stone. As one crept up behind Éowyn and raised his sword, Gríma sent the dagger singing through the air. His aim was true; it embedded itself in the Uruk's neck, leaving the orc writhing on the ground and spurting dark blackish blood on the hard stone around it.

Unfortunately, the maneuver caught the attention of the other Uruk-hai, who, although they may not have cared much for the life of their comrade, did not appreciate having their already scant number thinned. Two of them split from the band and charged after Gríma, while the remaining three battled with Éowyn.

Éowyn must have had time to glimpse who the orcs were after, because in the midst of her fight she whirled and sent her sword skittering across the stone ground to Gríma's feet, at the same time hurriedly rolling and grabbing the fallen Uruk's double-sided sword. Gríma had no time to see how Éowyn was faring; he bent, swept her sword up in his hand, and fled as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

When he considered himself to be a fairly safe distance ahead of the two Uruks, he ducked behind another stone pillar, removed his second and last throwing knife, and prepared himself. When he felt they were in a close enough range, he threw the second dagger. It embedded itself in the throat of the closest unfortunate Uruk, leaving him gargling on the ground. He attempted to struggle to his feet, but a few women who had found rusty swords came after him and finished him. They, of course, had no interest in taking on the fully functional and furious Uruk-hai charging at Gríma; they would leave him to the traitor to deal with. _Typical_, Gríma thought bitterly, and then the orc was upon him.

- - - - - - - - - -

The Uruks, although huge and angry and having an advantage of numbers against their single female opponent, were rather clumsy fighters with no particular style. Éowyn, being more agile, found herself at an advantage. She also noticed that a few of the bolder, younger women had lifted some rusty swords from various caches and were watching the battle cautiously, seeming to be at least a little prepared should one of the orcs tire of the battle and move on to kill elsewhere.

Éowyn spun and stabbed one orc in the neck - one of the few weaknesses in their armor, she noted as she spun and went after the others. From the corner of her eye she saw that the other women were now going after the helpless orc. _Such bravery, _Éowyn thought with a touch of disdain as she beheaded the second Uruk. She grimaced as black blood spurted across her face, momentarily blinding her.

Sensing her at a disadvantage, her final opponent swung at her. She barely managed to duck as she wiped the blood from her eyes, and she felt the rapid _whoosh _of air as the sword passed over her head. She glanced briefly at the ground and saw several long locks of her hair drifting lightly to the stone. _Too close_, she chided herself, and she straightened, blocking the orc's second strike with her sword. The blow shuddered down her arm, but the sensation only made her smile. She had been born for this - the heart-pounding battle, the blood, the perfect melding of the sword with the rest of her body. Here, in this place, in this fight, she was more at home than she would ever be anywhere else.

She parried another blow, ducked, spun, and stabbed. The third orc fell to her cut, and soon the other women were upon him with their swords, crying out jubilantly at their victory. But Éowyn realized with a horrible sinking feeling that it wasn't victory yet.

Where was Gríma?

- - - - - - - - -

The Uruk swung hard at Gríma, and the former counsellor barely managed to parry. The blow sent him reeling back against the stone wall. The next swing might have taken his head off if he hadn't ducked just in time. He heard the ugly clang of steel against rock and watched the sword sail back at its wielder. The Uruk, surprisingly, sneered and stayed his weapon. "You're the black-haired one," he said with a leer. "The one the Master is seeking. Sent you here to kill the king, didn't he?"

Gríma stood slowly. He could potentially use his service to Saruman as an advantage - but after seeing Éowyn, had he not sworn off that traitorous bond? "What Saruman commands of me is no business of yours," he said arrogantly.

The Uruk chuckled darkly, more a growl than a laugh. "The King of Rohan, as you may have noticed, is not dead," he noted. "He still walks among the living. You're not defecting to the other side, are you?" He lifted his sword and pressed it pointedly against Gríma's chest. Gríma gulped and took a step back fearfully.

The Uruk continued talking lazily. "Picking whichever side will server your interests best, are you?" he asked without really asking. "Well, if you've joined the horse-breeders, you've made a mistake. They won't survive this battle, and neither will you, you worthless coward. And I'm certain the Master would appreciate your head returned to him after your treachery…"

The Uruk lifted his sword and swung again. Gríma ducked once more and dove beneath the Uruk's arm, scampering across the floor. He barely managed to get to his feet before the Uruk swung again. Gríma parried as rapidly as his untrained body would allow; but the force of the clash was too much, and the sword flew from his hand, skittering across the floor to where he couldn't reach it. As he stared at his last defense disappearing, the Uruk's sword grazed his shoulder.

Gríma sank to the floor in a haze of red agony, clutching his shoulder. He could feel a warm liquid - _blood_, he thought dimly, _it's blood_ - spilling from a gash crossing from his upper arm to his chest. _For pity's sake, end the pain!_

The Uruk smirked in the knowledge that he had won, lifting his sword high above his head - and suddenly, he had no head at all!

- - - - - - - - -

The Uruk toppled before Éowyn's sword, the thick muscular body collapsing on top of Gríma's much more pitiful figure. Éowyn bent and jerked the Uruk off of Gríma and knelt beside him. "Gríma! Are you hurt?" she cried. She saw red blood dripping from a massive gash on his shoulder and chest, giving her all the answer she needed, and the Uruk's black blood was splashed across his clothes and face.

Gríma wiped the orc blood numbly from his face and stared at it. He seemed to come to a slow realization that another creature's blood was smearing his chin, had somehow dripped into his mouth, and he turned several shades paler than he typically was - quite a feat. He collapsed on his side, his wounded arm hanging limply, and retched.

Éowyn quickly rushed to pull his black hair away from his face, and she gently ran her free hand across his back. When he seemed finished, she rippled fabric from her skirt and wiped his face clean with it. "You are in pain," she said softly, laying her hand on his cheek.

He clutched at it, his eyes closed tightly. "My… my arm…" he gasped out.

"Yes," Éowyn said soothingly. "Don't worry, I don't believe it's fatal." She turned and shouted at a surprisingly large group of women standing by and watching, "Hurry and fetch me water and any fabric we can spare for blankets and bandages! And some of you - find anything solid you can and use it to block the entrance to the caves! We do not wish this to happen again."

The women rushed to do as they had been commanded, and Éowyn turned back to her charge. "You were very brave," she said gently.

Gríma snorted. "You gave me your sword, and I ran away," he said deprecatingly. "Just because I am wounded does not require my Lady to lie to me."

Éowyn smiled and laughed a little. "I did not realize you used throwing daggers," she said.

"They are effective, simple, and do not require direct contact with a victim," Gríma said, wheezing slightly from pain. "My type of fighting. The coward's fighting."

Éowyn shook her head, and then bent and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "You fought three Uruks, no matter your methods," she said. "I consider that courageous."

Gríma looked as if he might die from happiness. "My Lady…" he said in a strangled whisper, reaching up to touch her cheek.

At that moment, a small group of women rushed towards them, carrying buckets of water, fabric ripped into strips for bandages, and blankets. "Here, my Lady," the woman leading the group said, setting the things down. "We found what we could."

"Thank you," Éowyn said. When they stood uncertainly beside the pair, waiting for orders, she said pointedly, "The other women will need help blockading the entrance."

They glanced at each other, but bowed and scampered off to do as she asked.

Éowyn turned back to Gríma and helped him sit up. When she considered him in a satisfactory position, she reached over and pulled his cloak from his shoulders, causing him to grimace in pain, and then unbuttoned his shirt.

"You know, my Lady, I always imagined you removing my clothes in a rather different setting," Gríma said, smiling tightly despite the immense amount of pain in his arm.

Éowyn blushed prettily, but smiled where once she might have slapped him for such indecency. "Your fantasies will have to wait, my Lord," she said, her eyes sparkling in amusement. "I do not believe your damaged arm will allow you much room for aught else."

Gríma sighed painfully. "I could manage," he murmured jestingly, but the spasm of agony that crossed his face told Éowyn otherwise.

"Hold still," she said gently as she pulled his shirt from him and carefully wet one of the bandages. "I must clean the wound."

The instant she laid the fabric to the gash, Gríma gave a gasp of pain and tried to writhe away. "For pity's sake, Éowyn, do you intend to leave me wallowing in my own anguish?"

"If you do not stop complaining this instant, I will take back my declaration that you are not a coward, and rest assured I will tease you about this for the rest of your life," Éowyn threatened.

"You'll mock me whether I protest or not," Gríma said sullenly, but went silent.

When Éowyn was satisfied that the wound had been cleaned well enough, she bandaged it tightly to ensure the wound was protected. When she had finished, she leaned over and planted a second kiss over the gash. Gríma drew in a sharp breath, and Éowyn looked up and smiled gently at him. "No matter what I said in jest before, you were unusually brave this day," she said solemnly. "And I… I am grateful. You are not at all what I had thought you were, Gríma son of Gálmód."

Gríma smiled slightly. "Do not let me fool you, my princess," he said quietly. "I am as much a cold-blooded bastard as you once deemed me to be."

Éowyn shook her head, a small smile flickering across her face, and she said, "You should rest again. You must be tired after such a battle."

Gríma closed his eyes. "I am wearier than I think I have been in my entire life," he said softly.

Éowyn took his hand and lightly stroked his fingers, and started to rise to leave, but his eyes flew open and he whispered, "Éowyn, please - don't leave me… I don't believe I can sleep unless you are here…"

She nodded and sat beside him again, wrapping him in several warm blankets and allowing him to rest his head on her shoulder again. Soon, they were both asleep.


	12. Threatening

**A/N: This story is getting long! And as it gets longer, it's rapidly becoming one of my favorites. Thanks so much to all of you for sticking with this story and reading and reviewing - I am most appreciative!**

**And now for something completely different…**

- - - - - - - - -

Gríma experienced an unusually rude awakening when he was suddenly and abruptly kicked in the side by an extremely hard boot. He groaned unhappily and sat up, hand flying to where his knives were normally kept. Then he remembered that he had lost them all in battle, and with another groan, looked up to see who his enemy was.

"So the worm has come crawling back to us," a man's voice sneered from above him. "I suspected you would return in the end."

Gríma's eyes narrowed furiously. "Éomer," he snarled. "What an unpleasant surprise."

"I could say the same upon seeing your twisted countenance in this place," Éomer said icily. "Why have you returned? Has your true master sent you on some new errand?"

Gríma started to stand, and then shakily collapsed back to the floor, clutching his wounded shoulder. "I returned," he said through gritted teeth, "To warn Théoden King of the imminent danger of Saruman's army." He glanced sharply up at Éomer and said, "How goes the battle?"

Éomer smirked. "Saruman is defeated," he said, "And _you_ no longer have power, snake. You are solely at my mercy."

"At the mercy of your King," Gríma corrected him. "Which, if I am to be honest, is not a great deal more comfort. But let us not speak of this any longer - how did you arrive here? And how were we delivered victorious from the hands of Saruman? His numbers were far greater than ours."

"Indeed," Éomer said with a proud smirk, "Until Gandalf and my men arrived this morn."

He then proceeded to detail to Gríma the final events of the battle, bragging unabashedly, while Gríma listened with interest. Éomer told of Saruman's strange new weapon - they had settled on calling them 'explosives' because of the way in which they erupted; of Théoden's final charge, assisted by Aragorn; of Gandalf's arrival and the massive charge of the Éorlingas down the hill. Gríma was a patient and fascinated audience - unusual, particularly considering to whom he was listening.

Éomer managed to stay his typical unkind remarks as he told his tale uninterrupted, until he arrived at Treebeard's Huorns and greeting Éowyn as she departed the caves. There, he stopped and looked almost curiously at Gríma. "My sister told me you fought orcs," he said. "I found this extremely difficult to believe, considering what I know to be your fighting abilities. I have related to you my battle; now it is your turn. I spoke only briefly to Éowyn, and I wish to know every detail."

Gríma told him as much as he knew; how the six Uruk-hai had broken in, how Éowyn rushed to fight them, how Gríma was sent after her (here Éomer made a disparaging remark about the counsellor's courage, or lack thereof), and how he killed two of the Uruks and fended off another. "Of your sister's battle I know but little," he concluded. "I was not present for the vast majority of it. But she escaped without a scratch, talented warrior that she is; as you can see, I was not nearly so lucky."

Éomer studied the wound. "It is a nasty slash," he agreed. "You are lucky my sister found you. It will be long before that heals."

Gríma tenderly touched the bandages on his shoulder and grimaced. "I wish it would hurry," he muttered. "This was my good arm. I doubt I will be capable of doing much without its full operative use."

"Such is the way of the warrior," Éomer said bitterly. "You, fortunate counsellor, may remain behind while others ride to battle, but the rest of us must risk our lives in order to keep our people safe. You have had a taste of what I experience daily."

"And I am _very_ grateful that you so willingly put your life on the line," Gríma said, and he truly was; but his gratitude to the warriors did not _quite_ extend to Éomer. "I have never been made for such a life."

"We will need every man that can be spared in the following days," Éomer said gravely. "This is but the beginning. And if you truly have returned to our side - which I doubt - we may need your skills with throwing knives before the war has ended."

Gríma motioned to his wounded shoulder. "I cannot be of use for a long time yet," he said. "Unless in a short space of time you believe I can teach myself to throw with the opposite hand."

Éomer opened his mouth to make a rude comment in reply, but Théoden suddenly appeared behind him. "Gríma!" he exclaimed, and Gríma was surprised to note he was smiling. "Éowyn has told me of your battle and your wound."

Éowyn pushed past her uncle and brother and knelt by Gríma's side. "How does it feel?" she asks gently.

Gríma forced a smile. "It pains me, but I'll live," he said. "Unless, of course, you chose to poison me while cleaning it."

Éowyn smiled slightly. "I suppose such a punishment would not have been entirely unjustified," she said, "But I did nothing of the sort."

Gríma laughed and was about to say something, when another voice interrupted them. "You seem to be much improved, Master Wormtongue."

Gríma turned to glare at whoever had so addressed him and saw the tall ranger standing beside Théoden King. "Aragorn son of Arathorn," Théoden said, motioning to him. "He led us to victory this day."

Gríma inclined his head slightly. "A pleasure," he said bitingly. He seemed to struggle inwardly for a moment, and then he said grudgingly, "I thank you for saving my life on Meduseld's steps."

Aragorn nodded in acknowledgement, and then turned his eyes to Éowyn. "My Lady, I heard that you did battle with the orcs as well," he said.

Éowyn blushed prettily and looked down at the ground. "There were only six of them, my Lord, and two were slain by Gríma," she said modestly.

"That is still quite a feat, my Lady," Aragorn said. "You are indeed an excellent swordsman."

Éowyn smiled at him and seemed to glow from sheer happiness. Aragorn returned the smile gently and then turned away to listen to Éomer and Théoden, who were now conversing in low voices. Éowyn's eyes lingered on him overlong, and Gríma felt a sudden icy stab of jealousy. _No!_ he nearly screamed. _No, you cannot! Already my pride, my dignity, my honor, my place in the Golden Hall have been stolen from me - you will not steal my princess as well!_

He watched Éowyn in a near frantic state of terror and rage, his breathing suddenly turning shallow. For a few moments longer, Éowyn did not notice the change, but it did not take long for a sharp inhale to disturb her from whatever thoughts she was having. She glanced at him and caught the look on his face. "Counsellor, are you ill?" she cried, pressing a cool hand to his face. "Your face is warm," she said with a frown. "You may have a fever. We must get you to Edoras as quickly as possible."

Gríma closed his eyes tightly and reached up to clutch at her hand. "Don't leave me, princess," he whispered painfully. "_Please_…"

"I will not," she promised, although she sounded slightly confused. "I will return with you to Edoras. Surely we are going back this day?"

"No," Théoden interjected. Gríma opened his eyes and glanced at him. He had finished his conference with Aragorn and Éomer and had now turned to his niece and former counsellor. "Gandalf will take some of our number to confront Saruman. But you, sister-daughter, should indeed return home. As for Gríma - if you do not think he is in mortal danger, I wish to be certain he has come back to us to stay. He will go with us to Isengard, and there we will see where his true loyalties lie."

Éowyn's face fell. "But, Uncle, why can I not go also to Isengard?" she demanded.

"There is too much danger," Éomer said sharply. "The wizard has many powers beyond our knowledge. I would not see my sister come to harm at his - or his servant's hands," he added, looking pointedly at Gríma. Gríma returned the look with an icy glare.

"Gríma has proven that at least Éowyn is safe when she is with him," Théoden said. "She was alone with him for an hour and came to no harm."

"Éowyn is perfectly capable of defending herself," Gríma snapped, struggling to stand. She bent and pulled him to his feet, and helped to balance him. "And why would I bring to harm the one thing most precious to me in all the world?"

Éowyn blushed at this, but quickly asserted herself. "I can indeed defend myself," she said. "And Saruman does not frighten me. I would go with you to Isengard. Besides, Gríma is _my_ charge; you yourself granted that duty to me, Uncle. If he is to go with you, then so too shall I."

Gríma liked the emphasis she had placed on '_my _charge.'

Théoden seemed at a loss as how to refute this argument, but Aragorn stepped in. "My liege," he said, "I am a skilled healer, having studied with the Elves for many years of my life. Let me take care of his wounds, so that Éowyn may return to Edoras with the other women and children."

Both Théoden and Éomer were visibly relieved. "You are most generous, Lord Aragorn," Éomer said gratefully. "We will accept your offer."

Éowyn looked as though she had been stabbed by her brother's own spear. "But -" she tried to object, looking hopefully at Aragorn, but he only looked away. She stared at him with wounded eyes, and then turned and stormed off.

Éomer shook his head. "She does not understand," he said unhappily. "She knows only the glory of battle as told in songs; but she has not seen the real agony of a battlefield."

"Lady Éowyn was not made to be a rich man's bauble," Gríma said frigidly. "Surely as her brother you can understand this?"

Éomer rounded on him. "You have no right to speak!" he spat. "You have never seen a true battlefield, either, you cowardly bastard!"

Gríma laughed bitterly. "Haven't I?" he said. "I rode often with my father when I was fifteen. I fought with the same orcs that killed him. The horrors of the battlefield are what drove me to the life of a counsellor - among other, more obvious physical reasons, and a lack of interest in the art of killing. My health fails more often than I would wish, and I am of little value to the Riders of Rohan in my weak state. You have said so yourself often enough, Lord Éomer."

Théoden waved a hand. "Whatever your battle experience, Éowyn is a woman, and it is not deemed proper for women to fight," he said resignedly. "I know her temperament, and were she my sister-son I long ago would have trained her in the arts of battle; but she was born a woman, and much as her soul longs for battle, there are other duties I must place in her hands."

Gríma followed Éowyn's path of departure with his eyes. "By those words, you have slain her," he said regretfully.

"How dare you say such a thing?" Éomer snarled, but Théoden held him back.

Gríma turned his eyes back to his King. "If you do not grant her the freedom she desires, she is certain to seek it herself in secret," he said quietly. "If you will not permit her to ride to battle, she will find another, more deadly escape, once she has sunk deeply into despair; or perhaps she will find battle, and death, despite your refusal to allow it to her."

Théoden frowned. "She would not go so far."

"To what lengths _wouldn't_ she go to be free?" Gríma demanded. "Can any of us say what terrible things we might do, if we felt we were trapped and could not escape? _I_ am certainly a testament to such desperation."

Théoden appraised him with curious eyes, and then nodded briefly. "I daresay you are right," he said, considering. "But Éowyn's place cannot be on the battlefield. I will not allow it."

Gríma sighed and turned away again, saying painfully, "Then you shall see her dead ere this war has ended, and you will have only yourselves to blame."


	13. Returning to the Light

**A/N: My apologies for the lack of an update. I have a pretty good start on the next chapter though, so I don't think you need worry about whether or not I'll update for a while. Anyway, I only have 7 more days of school left. Rejoice! Soon I will be a crazy writing fool and you won't be able to catch up with all the chapters I've written! (Ha! I wish.) EP41: UPDATE SHADES NOW! lol Well, that's all I have for you today, so read on!**

- - - - - - - - -

Éowyn was nowhere to be seen when Théoden and his party left for Isengard. Gríma did not dare inquire after her, as he was currently riding astride Éomer's horse and feared Éomer might push him off at the first chance presented him.

"You should have ridden with Aragorn," Éomer snarled under his breath. "I can hardly bear to have such a traitor this close to me."

"Éomer, be civil," Théoden said reproachfully. "Master Gríma has been useful to us in this battle. Let us see if his loyalty is true before we pass judgment."

His loyalty. That was the only thing ever in question about him. Gríma had to find some way to convince them he was truly on their side, or they would never forgive him.

Gríma rubbed his wounded shoulder as he pondered what Saruman would say or do to convince them that Gríma was still working for him. The bastard surely had some plan by now, had some card to play that Gríma could never have guessed at -

Of course. The plan. Gríma had been sent to kill Théoden. He wore the mark of the wizard around his neck. If Saruman said anything about such a plan, Gríma would be finished.

"My liege," Gríma said aloud. "My shoulder pains me greatly. Perhaps our accomplished healer should look at it again before we continue?"

"Stalling for time," Éomer said with a sneer. "I suspected you'd try to pull such a trick."

Théoden silenced Éomer with a look. "Certainly, Master Gríma," he said. "Isengard is no great distance from here, and, truth be told, I do not look forward to this meeting any more than you."

Éomer reluctantly stayed his horse, and Gríma dismounted. "I am glad to hear it," Gríma said. In a lower voice, he added, "My liege, I must speak with you."

Théoden raised an eyebrow. "Something on your mind, counsellor?"

"A matter of some urgency… concerning my loyalty."

"Well, that is certainly relevant to the moment," Théoden said, "But I will not go alone with you. I have not my sister-daughter's great strength; if you decided to cast your spells again I have no doubt I would fall to you."

"Bring the wizard, if you must," Gríma said, glaring slightly at Gandalf the White. "I am of no consequence to such as him."

"Still bitter, I see," Théoden said dryly. "Very well. I will bring Aragorn as well." Théoden turned and called to the wizard, "Gandalf! We must have council. Come with Aragorn as well."

"Shall I go too, my Uncle?" Éomer asked, preparing to dismount.

"No, although I am sure you would be eager to hear whatever it is Gríma has to say," Théoden said. "You must remain with the rest of the party to ensure their safety."

Éomer bowed his head and murmured, "Yes, my King," but he did not look happy.

The small group walked a brief distance from the main party, far enough away where they could not be heard, and then stopped. "Well?" Théoden asked, crossing his arms across his chest. "You told me this was a matter of some urgency. Then speak."

Gríma swallowed nervously and pulled the medallion given him by Saruman from his neck. "I have a… confession to make," he said, handing it to Théoden. The king glared at him suspiciously, but before he could say anything, Gríma rushed to continue. "I was sent to Helm's Deep by Saruman to kill you," he burst out. "The token you hold in your hand was to be my protection - mine and Éowyn's." Here he removed the second medallion from a pouch at his side and handed it to Théoden. "Once the battle was finished we were to return to Isengard. He did not think you had the resilience to survive. I did not think so, either; but I confess speaking with Éowyn changed my thoughts about many things." He sighed heavily and said, "You may choose to do with me as you wish, my liege, but I tell you this as a sign of my utmost loyalty to you, and to beg your forgiveness. You were never anything but kind to me before this war began, and it was not against you that I sought vengeance; yet you were the man most grievously harmed by my actions. I can only imagine what you must think of me, betraying you as I have not once, but twice; but by all that is holy I have seen the effects of what I have done and I can never forgive myself for it."

There was a heavy silence for a moment. Then, Théoden carefully turned the medallions over in his hands and said contemplatively, "I always knew you had courage and goodness hidden somewhere in that harsh and weaker exterior."

Gríma looked up, surprised. Théoden smiled slightly and continued. "When you first came to the Golden Hall seeking work as a scribe, I saw immediately your cleverness and your value to me as a ruler, but also that you were bitter and hateful towards most of the world. I knew Gálmód much better than you can have imagined, and I know he was not a kind man. He rarely spoke of you at all, except in shame. You were never what he wanted you to be, but that did not and does not mean that you ever lacked value.

"You may not think so, but you are a man of Rohan through and through. No, do not protest yet," he said when Gríma uttered a disbelieving exclamation. "You may not see it, and others may not understand it, but you are indeed as much a Rohirrim as Éowyn or I. Your patriotism came in your love of words and history and language. You kept the country's records more neatly than ever before in recorded history; you organized our historical records, and kept them that way; when some new incident occurred, it was you who spent hours transcribing memories of the events into written words on parchment. Without you much of Rohan's history would have been lost; and I can think of no greater gift to a country and no greater loyalty than protecting its legacy in such a way.

"It took much courage that most deemed you did not have to reveal to me your original purpose in coming to Helm's Deep, but I imagine you shall be grateful for it when we arrive at Isengard. Saruman most certainly would have used this against you, and you would have been killed on the spot. You have indeed proven to me your loyalty. That does not mean I trust you fully yet; you have done too much damage for that. But if you continue this exemplary behavior… perhaps things can return to where they were."

"If this war does not destroy us all," Gríma said bitterly.

"We cannot know for certain, yet there is much hope that you do not yet know of," Gandalf interjected. "And you shall not know of it, for a time. But perhaps it will be you who transcribes the full tale once the war has ended; such a task certainly seems a labor of love for a man of words like you."

Aragorn studied Gríma with interest. "You are a fascinating puzzle, counsellor," he said curiously. "I do not yet understand how all the pieces fit together."

Gríma smiled slightly. "I am a puzzle beyond the minds of most men," he said simply. "Now, I have a feeling Lord Éomer grows impatient and wishes to see me meet my unhappy end. We most likely should move on towards Isengard once more."

"I take it your shoulder does not pain you as fully as you made out?" Aragorn questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, it pains me," Gríma said. "But I doubt it needs looking after just yet."

"Still a master of trickery and lying, I see," Théoden said dryly. "But you are indeed correct; we should be moving on. I do not welcome this confrontation, but at least one burden has been taken from my shoulders by this council."

When they returned to their horses, Éomer immediately demanded in a low voice, "What lies have you told my Uncle now, snake?"

"No more lies," Gríma said calmly. "Only truth."

Éomer snorted. "That I doubt very much," he said.

"I can be very honest if I choose," Gríma informed the other rider. "And although I have little interest in being honest with you, I imagine it will better serve my purpose if I am."

"Then tell me, in your own honest words: do you still desire my sister?"

"Of course."

Éomer's grip tightened on the reigns. "Why?" he demanded.

"Why _not_?" Gríma retorted.

Éomer was briefly taken aback, and then he let out a bark of laughter. "I do believe you are correct," he said. "Éowyn is a woman to be desired by any man. But I wished specifically for _your_ reasons to choose her."

"She is beautiful, and intelligent, and generous," Gríma said. "Indeed, she is most of what I am not."

"Well, _that_ is certainly the undeniable truth," Éomer agreed whole-heartedly. "But surely there are others who could satisfy you."

"Your sister posed the same question," Gríma noted. "But my answer is the same: there could have been, and there never was. I cannot choose who my heart desires; otherwise I would have sought someone not quite so far beyond my reach."

"So you have returned solely for her?" Éomer questioned.

"Mostly, yes."

"Mostly?"

"You will understand when the time comes," Gríma said shortly.

The rest of the ride was made in silence, until at last the broken stone walls of Orthanc were clearly visible. Gríma shuddered at the site of them; to think, he might have been on Saruman's side, and might have suffered Saruman's fate…

"Time for you to face your fate, snake," Éomer said almost gleefully. "You will not escape true judgment this time."

"For pity's sake, Éomer, Gríma has been pardoned," Théoden said sharply, riding ahead of them. "Leave him alone, if you will. I'm sure he has much on his mind at this moment."

Éomer frowned, but would not willingly disobey his liege's command. Gríma could feel the other rider's cold glare in the back of his head. It did not comfort him to know that he would be riding back to Edoras on this same horse with this hateful rider.

Unless, of course, Saruman had something planned that Gríma was not expecting.

Gríma was startled out of his thoughts by a sudden cry of, "Hallo! What's this?" and a shout from Gimli.

"You rascals!" the dwarf cried. Gríma wondered who Gimli could possibly be speaking to when he spotted two very small men standing on the broken stones before them.

"We've worried and chased after you and searched the entire countryside and then we arrive here and find you feasting and - and - and smoking!" Gimli gasped, as though this were the last straw.

One of them raised a glass merrily. "We are sitting on a field of victory enjoying a few well-earned comforts," the smallest of the two said without a trace of contriteness. "The salted pork is particularly good."

Gimli clearly began to salivate at the mention of food. "Salted pork…" he murmured dreamily.

Gríma shook his head and glanced back at the two creatures. "What are they?" he asked Éomer quietly.

Éomer shook his head, looking as confused as Gríma. "What think you?" he asked.

"My only guess is that they are some of the Holbytla," Gríma said in wonderment. Holbytla were creatures of myth; they were not believed to exist any longer, if they had every existed at all.

"The Holbytla are legends," Éomer said shortly. "They are tales used to entertain children."

Gandalf smiled and shook his head grandly. "There you are wrong, Lord Éomer," he said. "Lord Gríma is correct in this instance: they are Holbytla, or Hobbits in their own language. They rarely venture from their lands, but there are now four abroad." 

"Such times!" Éomer said in disbelief. "Creatures and kings of legend appear from the abyss as though it were utterly natural! I do not understand how all of this came to be."

"I doubt any of us understand it," Gandalf said gently, "But such are the times."

"Treebeard is looking for you, Gandalf," the taller of the two Hobbits said to the wizard. "He's a fright when he's angry, but now that he's mellow I'm sure he'll be kinder to you."

"The wizard is another case," Gandalf said gravely. "But we must confront him at once."

Gríma grimaced unhappily, but said nothing.

The Hobbits were loaded onto horses (the smaller on Aragorn's, the taller on Théoden's) and then they rode inside the stronghold. As they did, the taller Hobbit, Merry, introduced himself to Gríma and Éomer and asked them their names and stories.

"I'm Éomer, the King's sister-son," Éomer volunteered. "And this traitor," he added icily, "Is Gríma Wormtongue."

Merry studied Gríma curiously. "I've heard of you," he said. "Treebeard talked about you. I don't know how he knew, but Gandalf told us you'd returned to our side. I'm glad you did; you sounded intelligent to me, and we could undoubtedly use your help now."

Gríma was surprised by this little speech, and he did his best to bow slightly to the Hobbit. "Your kind are more generous than mine," he said bitterly. "Blessed are Hobbits among the Free Peoples, to stay their judgments so."

"We're not really like that," Merry said somewhat uncomfortably. "Most of us are terrible gossips. We live in such tight-knit communities; it's difficult not to know everyone's business. But things are very different here."

"Do you like it?" Théoden asked.

"Not really," Merry said. "I'd like to go home, more than anything; but if I do, I think… well, there won't be a home to return to, will there? Not if Sauron wins this war. So I don't have any choice: I've got to stay here and fight for my friends. The other Hobbits are so shut off from the world; they don't understand what's going on here. Don't even know they're in danger. I have to protect them."

"I know how you feel," Théoden said gravely. "My people, too, are in danger, and until recently I had been too blind to see it."

Gríma glanced guiltily away as Éomer and Merry both looked askance at him. He did not think he had ever felt so repentant in his life.

Suddenly, the call of another voice forced him to look up: "Who disturbs me in my solitude?"

Gríma nearly snarled at the sound of that voice. "Saruman," he hissed, glaring at the top of the tower and shrinking back on the horse.

Saruman's voice was laden with regret, as though he were simply a tired old man instead of a very dangerous Istari. "Gandalf, my old friend," he said, opening his arms. "You have come back. It is good to see you. Perhaps you wish to reconcile with me?" The wizard rapidly turned to Gríma. "I know that _you_ surely must wish to make amends, Gríma, after having betrayed me so. I have been nothing if not generous to you these past years."

Gríma snorted derisively, waking the others around him from their trances. Gríma, who had been trained to use his unusual oral abilities by Saruman, was nearly immune to all but the most powerful of Saruman's tricks, and was quite capable of using most of those tricks himself. "I did not come to make amends," he said darkly. "You have led me down a path of deceit; a path which I have turned from."

Saruman could not maintain his fragile control at this comment. He laughed, a cold, high-pitched, wicked laugh that sent shivers down Gríma's spine. "_I_ led you down that path?" he called furiously, eyes glowing. "You were quite willing to follow, weren't you, with Éowyn as your prize?"

Gríma hung his head. "Yes," he admitted. "I was." He looked up, summoning all his remaining courage. "But I was wrong."

"You were wrong?" Saruman screeched mockingly. "And you accept this new demeanor, Théoden King? Do you truly? You are a fool, then; a greater fool than I took you for. Do you not know that he came to Helm's Deep at my command, to murder you?"

Éomer's hand flew to his sword, but Théoden stayed him with a motion. "Indeed, I do know," the King said calmly. "He informed me of it before we arrived here. Have you any other evidence of his traitorousness? If not, your words are worthless to us."

"Evidence? _Evidence?_ What evidence is necessary against such a worm?" the wizard cried, unable to form a coherent argument at this newest outrage. "If Sauron were to offer Éowyn's hand to him he would turn once more!"

"I believe Gríma has come to understand that my sister-daughter is hardly won by treachery," Théoden replied coolly. "He will be closely guarded, but he is no longer your servant. You have lost everything, even your most significant spy."

Saruman gave a scream of utter rage at this and howled a spell in the Black Speech. Before anyone could react, he had pointed his staff at Gríma. All Gríma felt was a hard _slap_ of energy, as though something had hit and then rushed through him, and then darkness surrounded him.


	14. Healing

**A/N: Ok, so updates aren't coming any faster. My apologies. But here's the next chapter, so rejoice, foolish mortals, and make merry!**

Éowyn awoke with a startled cry that morning, feeling as though some sort of energy had burst through her soul and smashed her to pieces. The feeling dissipated, but the vague, throbbing agony remained as she lay in her bed, trying desperately to fall asleep once more. When she could not, she arose and dressed quickly, brushing her hair and walking outside.

Whenever she experienced strange dreams, Éowyn was wont to ride her horse out into the plains. She had been denied this pleasure during recent days; Gríma had sternly forbidden her to ride without escort. He claimed this was a precaution to protect the country's dear princess from coming to harm by bands of wandering orcs, but really it had been to ensure that Éowyn would never stray far from his watchful eyes.

Éowyn paused in preparing her horse, wondering almost fearfully what had become of Gríma in his confrontation with Saruman. Had he been proven guilty of crimes even she did not know? Was he lying dead and broken on the ground by Isengard, her brother's sword run through him?

She shuddered at the visual and leapt astride her horse, forcing it to gallop to the gates. The guards unhesitatingly pulled them open for her, no longer fearing Gríma's wrath. Few in Edoras knew that Gríma might yet be pardoned - pardoned, or dead.

Most would wish him dead.

Éowyn spurred her horse to ride quickly across the plains, feeling the wind rush past her, wiping her mind and body and soul clean of all the pain and agony she had suffered over the past long years. This was a delicious freedom she had not experienced in a long time, and she adored it. She could ride all day and never grow tired of it.

However, her horse soon came to a startled halt, and not at her command. Glancing up in surprise, Éowyn noticed a group of riders coming towards her. Even at her distance she recognized her brother and his companions. She gave a cry of delighted astonishment and sent her horse galloping towards them.

"Hail, Éowyn!" Éomer called to her as she rode close to them. "We need your help, if you might spare it."

"My help?" She reined her horse in atop a hill to wait for them. "What with?"

Théoden rode forth from the small company. Sitting limply astride his horse and before him was -

"Gríma!" Éowyn cried in horror.

"Saruman, in his fury, has caused Master Gríma grievous injury," Gandalf said gravely, halting his horse directly before hers. "Fortunately I was able to divert a great deal of the spell; otherwise, Gríma would be dead."

Éowyn looked fearfully to her uncle. "Has he proven his loyalty?"

"Indeed he has, my sister-daughter," Théoden said with a small smile. "I do not trust him entirely yet, but I believe he is returning to us." He frowned once more and continued, "He will need someone to help him in his recovery."

"Of course," Éowyn assented, staring at Gríma's deathly pale face. "I will do what I may."

Théoden nodded gratefully to her, and the company continued towards Edoras at a gallop, anxious to return to the comforts of home.

- - - - - - - - -

Gríma awoke burning hot, his vision blurred and his entire body experiencing a dull, throbbing pain. He heard two people talking in low voices in one corner of his room. He closed his eyes again, focusing all of his attention on their words. He soon realized that Théoden and Éowyn were the speakers.

"How is he?" Théoden was asking.

"Silent as the grave," Éowyn whispered. She asked tremulously, "Will he live?"

"Gandalf believes it so," Théoden said, firm confidence in his voice. "You have no need to worry."

Éowyn was worried about _him?_ Gríma smiled a little to himself.

"You never told me how he proved his loyalty to you," Éowyn said.

"He was sent to murder me," Théoden said somewhat despondently. "He was to kill me and return with you to the Tower of Orthanc." There was a brief pause. "You are not surprised."

"Until he has me, he will not be satisfied," Éowyn said certainly. "Surely you know that?"

"I know it well enough," Théoden said with a sigh. "Are you willing to give yourself to him?"

Gríma's breath caught in his throat. Éowyn, his wife? Surely Théoden would never permit such a thing to occur. And even if Théoden would allow it, Éowyn would never want it. She deserved a man of honor and principles, a warrior, someone noble and proud - in other words, a man who was everything that Gríma was not.

And yet…

Éowyn was hesitating. She was considering it. She was _considering_ the possibility of marrying him. That was almost more than Gríma could ever have asked for.

She whispered softly, "I need to think. I cannot decide yet."

Gríma felt disappointment slash through him like a sword, but he remained silent. He had not expected her to agree, and she had not completely denied the option yet.

"I will not pressure you," Théoden said gently. "Do not let him pressure you, either."

"I will not," Éowyn promised.

"Let me know when he awakens," Théoden said, and with a soft tapping of boots he was gone.

Gríma heard Éowyn's footfalls across the floor. He opened his eyes again; his vision was slightly clearer, and he could now distinctly make out Éowyn's figure standing a few feet from his bed. "Éowyn," he whispered hoarsely.

She turned and smiled at him. "Good morning, my Lord," she said softly. She lifted a goblet from the table by his bed and handed it to him. "Drink some water. It might make you feel a little better."

He glanced at the rim suspiciously. He doubted Éowyn would be so treacherous, but if her brother had come near the room…

"Old habits die hard, I see," Éowyn said with a laugh. "The water is not poisoned, I assure you."

Gríma glanced at her and said, "You cannot be sure. If Éomer even touched this goblet - "

"My brother has no interest in being in your bedchamber while you are ill," Éowyn said calmly. "Now drink that, before I take it and dump it over your head."

Gríma grimaced. "That does not sound so terrible," he said. "It feels as though I've been thrust into a fire."

Éowyn frowned concernedly and laid a cool hand against his forehead. "You're warm," she agreed, "But I think it's merely an aftereffect of the spell. Gandalf told me most of what you'll experience now will be gone within a week."

"I'm not sure I want to trust Gandalf," Gríma said dryly. "He _did_ banish me from this place…"

"For crimes that you committed," Éowyn protested. "That is not dishonest. You can certainly trust him now that you have returned to us."

Gríma smiled at her over the brim of his goblet. "Old habits die hard, my princess," he said. "You told me so yourself not two minutes before."

Éowyn smiled slightly and shook her head. The smile faded, and she asked, "Why did you not kill my uncle?"

Gríma drained the goblet and then set it down on the table beside his bed. "Théoden King is a good man," he said carefully. "And he did not deserve death. Neither do you deserve to spend the rest of your lifetime locked inside a dark black tower, forced to feel something you do not by a wizard's potion."

Éowyn did not flinch at Gríma's description of the fate that might have befallen her. "All true, perhaps," she said, "But they are not reason enough for you to return to us."

Gríma glanced at her sharply. After briefly considering her words, he told her, "I believe it was you who changed my mind, princess. After seeing you… after being with you again… and learning how my former actions had brought such pain to you, I could not continue."

A small smile returned to Éowyn's face. "I am grateful for it," she said sincerely. After a moment of silence, she said, "There is a feast tonight, my Lord, in celebration of our victory at Helm's Deep."

"The war is not won yet," Gríma objected. "You have no cause for celebration. Saruman may yet -"

"Saruman," Éowyn interrupted, "Is dead."

Gríma stared at her, stunned. "How?" he gasped.

"After he attacked you, Gandalf broke his staff," Éowyn explained. "He was no longer a wizard. Left defenseless, anyone could kill him. Legolas shot him with an arrow."

Gríma still did not quite believe that Saruman could have disappeared entirely. "And his orcs?"

"Most of them drowned when the Ents released the river Isen upon Isengard," Éowyn said, laying a cool, wet cloth on Gríma's forehead. "You need not fear him any longer."

Gríma stared blankly at her, still not quite comprehending that the man he had served - that terrible, wicked Istari - was dead. He felt almost as though a great burden had been taken from him; and yet, some vague terror of that burden still lingered like a shadow on his heart. "He cannot simply disappear," Gríma said certainly. "He will return."

"Let us hope not," Éowyn said firmly, ending the subject there. "The celebration is held to celebrate our one victory, and to lift our spirits. It is sorely needed in these times. We may not have won the war, but we never will if we cannot raise morale."

Gríma nodded slowly. "Wise words, my princess," he murmured, closing his eyes. The heat in his body was dissipating, but he still felt the dull aching throughout his body. "You will enjoy yourself, I trust."

"If you feel well enough, you should attend," Éowyn said. "I rarely saw you at feasts before, save hidden in shadowy corners. This celebration is partially for you, anyway; you aided us at Helm's Deep by alerting us to Saruman's great army, and you sustained a wound besides."

"I am no hero, Éowyn," Gríma said darkly, "And there is no cause to rejoice in my lack of courage. I am tired and I am in pain; I will rest this night. You may go and make merry, my princess, but banquets, feasts, and dances are no place for me."

He sank back against the cushions of his bed and slowly began to drift into sleep. Éowyn did not try to stop him, but he sensed her sitting near him, watching him with concerned eyes. The feeling made him smile.

The world slipped back into darkness.


	15. Surprise Attack

**A/N: Apologies for not updating sooner. And I'm not even giving you a happy chapter to read. I'll try to update with some slightly happier chapters soon. For now, this is what you get. Hope you enjoy it.**

- - - - - - - - -

The celebration of their victory at Helm's Deep was a lively event, strangely contrasting the solemnity of the many deaths that had occurred. Éowyn hardly noticed. It had been overlong since she had seen Théoden or her brother looking so happy. Their joy was infectious, and it spread quickly to her and the rest of the guests in the Golden Hall.

Éowyn was watching the dancing from the sidelines when Aragorn approached her. "I hope you are not angry with me for denying you the opportunity to ride with us," he said softly.

Éowyn glanced at him, and her eyes betrayed the deep hurt he had inflicted. "Do you not believe me capable, my Lord?" she asked softly.

He sat beside her, gazing earnestly into her eyes. "My Lady, I believe you may well be a more capable warrior than I," he said. "But your people need you here - as they will continue to need you here. You understand, don't you? Without Théoden and your brother here to guard Meduseld and its capital there will be none to rule in their places. You must remain behind for that very reason. It is your duty to protect Rohan in a different way."

Éowyn smiled slightly at the compliment, but looked away. "I am a Shieldmaiden," she said quietly. "I was made for battle."

"I know," Aragorn said gently. "I knew the moment I first saw you."

Éowyn looked up and met his eyes once more. There was a depth of understanding hidden in his gaze that Éowyn almost never saw, and she was drawn instantly to it, like a moth to flame. "You achieved much for us," she said, almost adoring. "Without you we surely would have lost hope and failed."

Aragorn waved away the praise. "You, too, did your duty for Rohan," he said. "You killed the orcs who broke into the caves and saved many lives by doing so."

The light in her eyes seemed to die. "Not as many as you did," she said sadly. "I could have done so much more…"

Aragorn lightly laid his hand over hers. "You were where you were needed, my Lady," he said. "And that is what matters most."

A smile began to grow on Éowyn's face. She was searching for the right words to say when he brother dropped down beside her and threw his arm around her shoulder. "You should hardly be sitting on a bench in the corner, little princess," he said fondly, kissing her on the cheek. "Should you not be dancing, or gossiping with the maids?"

"Or besting _you_ at your swordplay," she retorted, lightly pushing him on the shoulder.

He laughed merrily. "I cannot deny that you are quite a warrior," he said. "Wormtongue can attest to it. He'd be dead without you."

"Many would be dead if your sister had not stopped the orcs," Aragorn concurred. "She is quite an extraordinary woman. You are very lucky." He stood, took Éowyn's hand in his, and lightly kissed her fingers. "_Westu Éowyn hal_," he said softly, and then turned and disappeared into the crowd. Éowyn watched him leave, a terrible, aching longing for a dream she could never achieve growing inside her.

"He is a good man," Éomer whispered into her ear. "And I am happy for you. Will you have him?"

Éowyn blushed and turned to look at her brother. "If he asked," she said delicately, "Then, yes."

Éomer's eyes sparkled. "He will ask, sister," he promised. "He will ask."

Éowyn's heart leapt to her throat at the words. Aragorn was such a good and honorable man - with him, she could be everything she ever wanted and more. He would be her freedom, ending the darkness of her life. As her husband -

She stiffened suddenly as the word _husband_ crossed her thoughts. Gríma rose unbidden in her mind, conjured by a word that should never have been attached to him. How would he react if she were to tell him that she and Aragorn were to be wed? She would have to be the one to tell him; he would not kindly accept her cowardice if she could not say it to his face. She could already see the look of utter betrayal and rage crossing his face, the look of utter wounded rage in his eyes.

Gríma would rather slit his own throat than see Éowyn wed another man. And it was not only his own throat he would be willing to cut. Lives, even thousands, might be put at stake if Éowyn spurned him once again.

Éowyn sighed and laid her head against her brother's shoulder. She was so tired of duty; tired of being forced to do something for the good of her country, rather than doing something for her own happiness. She wanted to be free.

"Something is troubling you, little princess," Éomer said, frowning in concern. "You should be happy this night."

Éowyn sat up and forced a smile. "I am happy," she promised. "I am merely tired. These past few weeks have been trying for us all."

"Indeed," Éomer agreed, his expression clearing. He kissed Éowyn's forehead again and commanded gently, "Go to your chambers and rest. I can see you are quite weary, and sleep will be much needed. Soon, perhaps, the battle will be at our doorstep; and all of us must prepare for when that day comes."

Éowyn nodded, quietly bid Éomer good night, and left the throne room at a slow, melancholy pace, her mind still caught on her future and what might become of her.

- - - - - - - - -

Gríma awoke shivering with cold, and realized that he had kicked his furs to the end of the bed. He felt weak and dizzy; and even if he had had a strong desire to do so, he did not have the strength to reach for them.

Fortunately, not long after he awoke, the door to his chambers opened and Éowyn entered. She looked sad and troubled, her eyes downcast and her forehead creased in a slight frown. She looked up and saw Gríma watching her, and forced a smile. "I thought you would be sleeping," she said.

"I awoke moments ago," he said, shivering involuntarily.

Éowyn noted the furs pushed to the end of the bed and quickly moved to cover him again. "You must keep these on," she chided. "The night is cold."

"I am aware of it," Gríma said sardonically, gripping the furs with one hand and pulling them up around his chin. "How goes the feast?"

"Well enough," Éowyn said shortly. "But I am weary, and am retiring early from the festivities."

Gríma looked surprised. "So soon?" he questioned. "The night is still young, is it not?"

"I'm tired," Éowyn said a bit too sharply. She seemed to realize it, and she looked down in embarrassment. "My apologies," she whispered. "I don't know what's wrong with me…"

Gríma propped himself up weakly on one elbow. "Something is clearly troubling you, my Éowyn," he said concernedly. He noted a slight flinch at the possessive used before her name, and felt a stab of pain in his gut. "What weighs so heavy upon your heart?"

Éowyn sighed. "Many things," she said. "Things that are of no concern to you."

"You can trust me," Gríma promised.

"So you told my uncle when you came into his service," Éowyn snapped, another unnecessarily bitter comment. Gríma drew back in surprise, his gaze hurt. Éowyn looked remorseful and made an attempt to apologize by offering him tea.

"No, thank you," Gríma said flatly, dropping back onto the bed and closing his eyes tightly. "You are tired, as am I. We need our rest."

"Gríma- " Éowyn said softly, laying a hand on the furs.

"Go to bed, Éowyn," Gríma said firmly. Éowyn started to object, and he snarled, "I said _go!_"

Éowyn bit her lip so hard it began to bleed, and then turned and fled the room.


	16. His World Begins to Crumble

**A/N: Aha! I'm amazing! I give you two chapters! Sing and dance and feed acorns to the happy chipmunks! Seriously, now… um… I wish I could tell you this chapter makes everything that happened in the last chapter ok, but it doesn't. I will do my best to update quickly so you will not have to suffer through waiting to find out what happens next. Apologies if I (once again) fail to uphold my promise. Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews! I love you all!**

- - - - - - - - -

Weeks passed, and talk of war in Gondor became common among the folk in Edoras. Even Gríma was not isolated from it, although he was confined to his bed for the majority of the following month. Éowyn shared with him what news she heard, as did a few guards and servants who passed through his room on occasion. By the time he was on his feet again and prepared to truly serve Théoden once more, he had already been well briefed on what was occurring.

Théoden repeated the information to him anyway when Gríma first resumed his old seat by Théoden's throne. "Gandalf has left us to fly to Gondor," he said somewhat bitterly. "One of the hobbits seems to have stolen a Palantir and seen Gondor's impending doom in it. They both go to warn him. Gandalf has asked me to go to Gondor's aid, should they require it. But Gondor never helped us in our time of need… why should we help them?"

He seemed to be asking Gríma's opinion, so Gríma said cautiously, "My liege, Saruman is no longer a threat; we must now look to our more dangerous enemies.

If the armies of Mordor defeat Gondor, then very little stands between Sauron's armies and ourselves."

Théoden glanced at the others surrounding him - Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Merry, and Éomer. Éomer was the first to speak. "I still do not trust you, Gríma," he growled. "But, I must reluctantly agree. If Gondor falls, then it is almost certain that we will too. As Gríma said, there is no one else who will block Mordor's advance if Gondor falls."

Aragorn was nodding in agreement. "You must also think of what will happen after this war," he said softly. "If Mordor is defeated, everyone's interests will be much better served if we are not enemies. You will need an alliance with Gondor if all goes in our favor."

Legolas and Gimli nodded in agreement, but added nothing significant to the conversation. Merry hesitated, and then spoke up. "Théoden King," he said carefully, "I'd also like you to go to Gondor's aid. It's just… Pip's there and I'd like to see that he's taken care of. Besides, if Rohan falls, then the Shire is sure to follow. We have no weapons; we're a peaceful people by nature. We'll be crushed for certain. And that's why we came anyway, isn't it? The four of us hobbits, I mean. We came to make sure the Shire would be safe."

Théoden seemed especially moved by Merry's testimony. Clearly, Théoden had grown quite fond of the little hobbit in his time at Edoras. Gríma made certain their friendship was duly noted in his mind.

"We must be prepared to act on a moment's notice," Aragorn warned. "Gandalf will be sending us a signal any day now. When that signal comes, we must go at once to Gondor's aid."

Théoden nodded slowly. "Éomer, warn the Éorlingas to be prepared for a rapid departure," he said. "And you will also be in charge of sending messengers to the other parts of Rohan when the time comes. We will move quickly and go to Dunharrow as soon as we can, once the signal fire has been lighted."

Éomer nodded shortly. "Then it is decided?"

Théoden sighed. "I do not know," he said. "All of you claim that we must ride at once to Gondor's aid; but where was Gondor…" He hesitated and swallowed hard. "Where was Gondor when my son was killed?"

Éomer glared at Gríma, and Gríma looked away, his guilty eyes staring unhappily at the stone floor.

Merry spoke softly from the floor. "Begging your pardon, my King," he said, "But the eldest son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, is dead as well. Rohan wasn't there to save him either."

Théoden glanced at the hobbit in surprise. "Boromir is dead?" he repeated.

Legolas spoke from the midst of the group. "He traveled among the Nine Walkers," he said. "He was one of our group. He died trying to save Frodo from certain death. Saruman's orcs came after us in the hope of stealing the Ring first."

Gríma turned his eyes back to the group in confusion that he chose not to voice. Éomer was the only one who noticed, but he did not draw attention to Gríma's lack of information, either. Apparently Gríma was to be left out of this conversation, deliberately or not.

"When the time comes, I will make my decision," Théoden said after a moment of silence. "For now, we must be prepared to leave the instant a signal is sent us. Even if we do not ride to Gondor's aid, we must prepare for war."

The decision made, all present bowed and then departed the throne room.

- - - - - - - - - -

Gríma found Éowyn sitting in the grassy plain outside of Edoras' walls. He was not particularly surprised to see her sitting just beyond the boundaries of safety, and neither was he concerned for her. She was carrying a sword that was attached at the waist of her simple shift. Her golden hair was blowing in the wind, and she was sitting amongst the tall grass, eyes focused on the distance.

Gríma seated himself cautiously beside her. Although Éowyn had been his caretaker for the past few weeks, neither had apologized for the small spat they had had on the night of the celebration. Gríma was deeply remorseful and ready to put the incident behind them. He waited a moment for her to speak, and when she did not, he said quietly, "I'm sorry, Éowyn."

She did not look at him. "So am I," she said, and she sounded sad and lost.

The hopelessness in her voice terrified him, and his hand rose of its own accord to rest comfortingly on her shoulder. "Éowyn, what troubles you so?" he asked fearfully. "Please, unburden yourself. I would not see you so sad."

Éowyn sighed and closed her eyes, a single tear trailing down her cheek. "Do not ask me to tell you," she pleaded. "It is not a matter with which you can assist."

Gríma drew his hand back as though burned. "Why not?" he demanded.

"You are a very interested party."

Gríma felt panic rising inside him as he suddenly guessed exactly why she had been so formal and aloof with him since the night of the celebration. "You are to wed someone else."

Éowyn still did not move. "It has not been confirmed," she said.

Gríma's heart seemed to drop like a stone into his gut. Feeling dizzy and almost nauseous, he whispered, "Who?"

Now she truly did look at him. "Who do you think, Gríma?" she asked.

Another stab of pain, ripping across the nearly healed scar of his orc-inflicted wound, stopped to throb painfully just above his heart. "Aragorn is an honorable man, I suppose," he managed weakly.

For a moment, relief washed over her face. "You truly think so?" she asked, sounding delighted that he had released her in such a way. Any relief that she had shown, however, seemed to evaporate when she saw the expression on his face.

Now it was Gríma's turn to look away. "He is everything you deserve, Éowyn," he said painfully. Suddenly, a terrible anger built up inside him, and his hand clenched involuntarily, as though he were strangling the Ranger to death. "But, damn it all, Éowyn, I love you more than he _ever_ will!"

"Gríma - " Éowyn rushed to soothe him, to try to explain, but there were no words that would calm him now. He leapt to his feet and backed away from her, betrayal written on every inch of his face.

"_Why?_" he demanded harshly. "Why do you hate me so much?"

Éowyn pulled herself up to her feet, too, and tried to be nearer to him, but he shrank back. "I don't hate you," she said, almost begging him to believe her. "I truly don't. You have changed so much, or at least you have shown qualities I did not realize you possessed; and I am… _grateful_ to you for that."

An ugly sneer crossed Gríma's face. "Grateful?" he spat. "I don't want your gratitude, or your pity. Save it for someone who deserves it. Save it for your precious future King of Gondor, if you so desire. Surely _he_ will have more use for it than I."

"Gríma!" Éowyn exclaimed. She should have expected him to react so violently, she truly should have; but she hadn't. She had expected anger, but she had not expected it to be so powerful. She tried to work frantically against his rage. "Will you at least listen to me?"

"No," he said flatly. "I won't."

He was in the midst of turning to rush back into Edoras when he froze and his eyes locked on the mountaintops behind Edoras. Éowyn, too, turned her eyes to see what he might be staring at, and, with a jolt of shock, saw the flicker of a fire on one of the peaks.

"Gondor," she breathed, and then she and Gríma both set off for Edoras at a dead run.

- - - - - - - - - -

Edoras was already in an uproar when they rushed into it. Théoden had clearly decided to answer Gondor's call; the Éorlingas were suiting up in their armor, women were rushing about packing items for their men, and horses were being saddled and prepared for the ride to Dunharrow.

Éowyn felt a thrill of excitement at the prospect of battle, but it was quickly doused by the foul expression on Gríma's face. He took no delight in battle, and to him this war meant nothing but pain and suffering. At the moment, he looked like he would rather have died at that instant than live through the rest of the war and see its consequences.

His fury was plainly written on his face for all to see, and when they arrived at Meduseld, Théoden mistook it for displeasure at his decision. "This is what you advised me, Gríma," he said in a low voice to the counsellor. "Are you not pleased that I have listened?"

Gríma glanced at Théoden, startled. Clearly he had not even realized his king was near. "My liege," he said with a deep bow, "Forgive me. I am indeed pleased that you have chosen to go to Gondor's aid. Indeed, your sister-daughter and I saw the signal fire and ran as quickly as we could to tell you it was lit. You have already noted it, I see."

Éowyn was still flinching at the coldness in his voice as he had stated, "your sister-daughter."

Théoden had noticed it, too. "I have some errands that you might be able to help me with," he said, gently guiding Gríma towards one of Meduseld's many corridors. "Éowyn, go to the armory and help the men find swords, and see if you can clear the rust from those that are wearing down."

Not surprisingly, sending her to the armory also sent her in the opposite direction of Gríma. Éowyn turned and went to the armory without question. She trusted Théoden to talk some sense into Gríma.

- - - - - - - - - -

"You and Éowyn have fought," Théoden said bluntly when they were out of earshot of most of the servants.

Gríma smiled bitterly. "You are very straightforward, my liege," he said. "Yes, we quarreled a little."

"A little?" Théoden repeated incredulously. "I have never in all my life seen you address her so coldly, and believe me, I have seen more interactions between the pair of you than you realize." He stopped and turned to his formerly traitorous counsellor. "What happened?" he asked gently.

Gríma looked Théoden straight in the eye and asked tremulously, "Is it true Éowyn will wed Aragorn, son of Arathorn?"

Théoden raised his eyebrows. "I have not heard it mentioned," he said slowly, But I admit, it would hardly surprise me if that was what she chose."

Gríma looked away, a flash of pain crossing his face at these words. Théoden frowned slightly. "She told you she was to marry Aragorn, then?" he prompted.

"She said that it was not confirmed," Gríma said dejectedly.

"Clearly, then, he has not asked her." Here Théoden paused. "Of course, neither have you, counsellor."

"Éowyn knows my intentions," Gríma said with a small snarl. "She has been aware of them for some time now."

"That does not change the fact that you have not asked her," Théoden said. "Perhaps if you proposed formally…"

"No," Gríma said certainly. "She will have Aragorn, if he will have her; and I cannot imagine any circumstance in which he would refuse Éowyn."

Théoden began walking again, and Gríma followed a few paces behind. "I have heard rumor of an Elfmaiden in Rivendell," Théoden said cautiously. "One who fell in love with a mortal."

"You think of Luthien and Beren," Gríma corrected, but Théoden was already shaking his head.

"No," he said. "She is a different woman, and he a different man. Aragorn is that man."

Gríma looked up, startled. "You think Aragorn has promised himself to an Elfmaiden?"

Théoden shrugged. "It is only a rumor," he said, But since I overheard Legolas and Gimli speaking of it it may be more than a rumor."

Gríma felt a small flame of hope rising within him. "Then why does he tempt Éowyn so?" he demanded. "It's hardly fair to her."

"As I understand it, the Elves are leaving these shores," Théoden said slowly, piecing his theory together as he spoke. "Perhaps she, too, will leave; perhaps Aragorn cannot be certain what she will do. He finds himself interested in Éowyn, but he cannot know if the Elfmaiden he loves has gone or remained. I can hardly blame the man for wanting Éowyn. Can you?"

Gríma's hands clenched into fists, but he gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

Théoden laid a hand on Gríma's shoulder. "There is time yet, counsellor," he said softly. "This war is not yet over, and we may all be dead before we can make any worthwhile choices. Even if we do win this war, Éowyn will not wed someone unless asked. You would do well to remember that."

Gríma nodded again, and Théoden smiled slightly at him. "Pack a few significant things," he said. "We will be prepared to depart by late this afternoon. You will ride with us to Dunharrow, and there I will determine if you are well enough to ride with the others. If not, you will remain with Éowyn while she rules in my stead. Perhaps then you can discuss what will happen with Aragorn."

That was hardly what Gríma wanted to discuss when he would finally have the chance to be alone with Éowyn, but he could not say as much to her uncle. Instead, he bowed deeply and then rushed towards his quarters, anxious to find his journal and pour out his rage into its soothing pages.


	17. Everything Collapses

**A/N: All right, fine. I lied last time when I said I would update soon. The good news is that I have planned out exactly what I want to do for the remaining chapters. Besides that, this is a flipping LONG chapter. The bad news is that I have two possible endings, one which wraps things up quite nicely and another that allows for a sequel, which I have semi-planned. I will probably take the latter ending, but we'll just have to see how things go. Anyway, apologies for being slow on updating this, and thank you to my Myspace buddy who got me to work on this.**

- - - - - - - - -

All of Edoras was in an uproar for the rest of the day. Gríma and Éowyn passed each other many times, but he was careful never to meet her eyes, even as she would pause to look at him. He would have nothing to do with her - not yet. The betrayal - for, indeed, so he viewed it - was too fresh, too painful. _Soon_, he continually promised himself. _I will speak with her soon._

Éowyn, too, was struggling with the desire to speak to him and the desire to avoid him at all costs. He was the one thing causing the potential ruination of all her hopes (or, at least, so she believed), and yet… some part of her wanted him to understand. It was, she thought, her fear that he would do something drastic once more, perhaps returning to aid Saruman or some other dark force for the promise of her hand. She could not allow that to happen again. She would feel responsible if he brought about the downfall of the Free Peoples.

She paused in her work to glance at him as he walked swiftly past her, his robes brushing her side as he did so. He was clearly making a concerted effort not to touch her or look her way. She glared at his retreating back in frustration, but smiled slightly as she thought, _He does not seem as though he would have the strength to bring about anyone's downfall save his own._

The smile evaporated. He almost _had_ brought about his own destruction, she realized grimly. Doubtless he knew it better than most; and still he walked upon the edge of a knife's blade, treading the line between treason and honor. Still Éowyn could not determine to which side he truly belonged; still she could not see what he intended. He frightened and intrigued her all at once; she wanted to understand him and yet feared the depth of contact it would take to reach that understanding.

"My Lady."

Éowyn turned suddenly, startled from her thoughts. "Lord Aragorn," she said softly, a smile lighting her face.

He looked grave. "Your people are stouthearted," he said. "I am glad that they will go to Gondor's aid."

"We do not fear death," Éowyn said simply.

"It is death that they face," Aragorn replied sadly. "Death and darkness."

Éowyn glanced at him. "Do you think this war will end well for us?" she asked tremulously.

Aragorn shook his head. "I know not, my Lady," he said. "I cannot see what lies ahead; and even those who can often find that what they see can be altered. There is a small hope left, a hope that you know little of; but every day I fear that that hope may be slowly disappearing." He glanced curiously at the fully loaded horse standing beside her in the stables. "Will you ride with us?" he asked.

"Just to the encampment," Éowyn replied carefully, turning away. She did not mention that she intended to ride much farther with them; she trusted Aragorn, but if he discovered her plan, he would never permit her to go through with it. "It's tradition for the women of the court to farewell the men."

Aragorn casually leaned over and lifted a blanket that she had carefully placed to hide her sword. Her hand flew to cover it, but it was too late. He shook his head knowingly as she tried to shrug off the discovery. "The men will follow you anywhere that you lead them," she told him softly. "You have given us - _all_ of us - hope."

Aragorn smiled slightly and inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, and then turned and disappeared into the crowd of busily moving Rohirrim. Éowyn stared after him, lost in daydreams and whispers of the future - until a bitter voice cut through her reverie.

"Until Lord Aragorn has made his intentions known, my Lady, it would be wise of you to stop staring dreamily after him wherever he may go," Gríma spat out. "A true lady of the court is modest and makes certain her desires are less blatant."

Éowyn whirled to glare at him, infuriated. "And if we are to speak of those who should have made their intentions known, why not recall your own lack of a formal proposal to me?" she retorted. "I do not see the use in mentioning the hypocrisy of your final comment, as _your_ desires are certainly no mystery to anyone in Edoras."

Gríma forcefully sheathed one of the daggers he was packing and almost threw it into his saddlebag. "Very well, then," he said harshly, turning to her. "Will you be my wife, Éowyn?"

She gaped at him in astonishment. "What?" she finally managed.

"You heard me," Gríma replied icily, turning back to his own horse. "You now have my proposal; now you need only wait for his, if, indeed, he intends to have you for his bride."

"He does," Éowyn said hotly.

"Does he indeed?" Gríma questioned, his cold blue eyes slicing keenly to her heart. "As much as I believe Lord Aragorn admires you, he does not quite seem to desire you as you desire him. And if he does not return your love, my Lady, what then will you do? Will you have me, or will you choose death in battle instead?"

Éowyn wanted to beat Gríma into a bloody pulp. Instead, she merely glared at him. "These are the words of a bitter heart," she said, forcing herself to remain calm. "You know nothing of what Aragorn feels, and that frightens you, I suppose, thinking that you may well lose your prize to some other man. But what did you think would happen? Did you expect, by returning, that I would suddenly fall into your arms and love you as though your betrayal had never occurred? I am indeed impressed by all that you have done for us, but that is not enough for me to completely disregard all that came before."

Gríma said nothing in response to this. When she turned to look at him again, he was resolutely saddling his horse, glaring at the horse's belly as though it had deeply offended him somehow. "Have you nothing to say to me, counsellor?" Éowyn demanded, almost triumphantly.

He looked back at her wearily, and Éowyn was startled by the look of utter defeat in his eyes. "What is left to say?" he asked softly. "I have argued and pleaded and commanded; any words that might defend my position have already been spoken and grown dull and worn from overuse. You know what I feel; you do not need to hear it again, save to spite me, I suppose." He stood and walked to stand before her almost reverently. He lifted a hand and held it a few centimeters away from her cheek. "The proposal stands, my Lady," he whispered. "Please, consider it. Perhaps you do not see it, but I _do_ love you - more than your Ranger, more than any Rohirrim, more than any other ever will."

His fingers dropped, and he seemed almost to disappear, melting into the soft shadows of the stable.

- - - - - - - - - -

It was late in the afternoon when the Éorlingas rode from Edoras, their king and third marshal at the front. Éowyn, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli rode slightly behind them. Gríma rode still further behind, with Gamling and several other guards. Éowyn could feel his eyes burning into her back as they rode, but she never once looked back, no matter how much she desired to. She also forced her eyes to avoid wandering to Aragorn. She told herself that she was doing this because there were many other things around her to see, but in truth she suspected Gríma's words had struck her more deeply than she cared to admit.

When they paused to camp that night, Éowyn forced Gríma from her mind and sat with her brother and several of the guards, singing songs and listening to tales of battles past. She greatly enjoyed herself and nearly managed to forget the counsellor entirely - until her uncle approached the fire with a concerned frown.

"Éowyn, have you spoken with Gríma recently?" he asked.

"No," she replied a little coldly. "Why do you ask?"

Théoden sighed. "I can't seem to find him," he said heavily. "No one seems to know where he's gone."

"He's turned on us again," Gamling muttered. Surprisingly, Éomer silenced him with a glare.

"Where would he go, Gamling?" Éomer questioned. "Saruman is dead, and Sauron has no foothold here, not yet. There is no one nearby to whom he could betray us. No, if I know Gríma - and I know him better than he thinks - he's wandered away from the camp to spend some time in silence, pondering the stars. Social gatherings have never been something he enjoys."

"Éowyn, will you seek him out?" Théoden asked, almost pleadingly. "I would send someone else, but I doubt he would listen to anyone but you. I do not wish him to catch cold or be attacked."

Éowyn wished she were a girl again, and that she could stomp and pout and throw a tantrum of sorts in refusal, but instead she rose and gave a dignified curtsy to her uncle. "Of course," she murmured, and, grabbing a cloak, she left the warmth of fire and slipped into the night.

- - - - - - - - -

The stars glimmered like small shattered fragments of icy crystal spilled across a dark black cloak. Gríma stared up at them in silence. Stars had never brought much comfort to him; he felt as though they were judging him, watching his every move, mocking his agony. Whenever he went outside at night it was to return their glare, lying flat on his back and staring at them as though they had personally wronged him somehow. Stars held no romance or comfort for Gríma son of Gálmód.

Soft footfalls disturbed the silence surrounding him, but Gríma did not move from his position on the ground. He kept his eyes focused on the sky, even when Éowyn spoke softly from behind him. "Gríma?" she whispered. She sounded a little frightened.

Still he did not look at her. "Yes, my Lady?"

She came to sit beside him on the ground. From the corner of his eye he saw a glimpse of long golden hair and a red embroidered sleeve. He forced his gaze to continue staring upwards, much as he wanted to look the other way.

"It is cold and dark here," Éowyn said gently. "You should return to the camp."

Gríma shook his head slightly. "I am not wanted there," he said bitterly.

"You do not know that," Éowyn said indignantly. "My uncle sent me to -!"

"Of course," Gríma snapped. "Of course your uncle sent you. Why in the name of the Valar would you come yourself to find me? Certainly _you_ were not concerned for my safety. Indeed, it would be better for you, wouldn't it, if I caught a chill and died here shivering and alone? Then there would be no barrier between you and your precious Ranger. Well, my princess, Valar forbid I keep you from the warm fire and your beloved. Go on - leave me. The world has little use for me anyway."

Éowyn drew back slightly at the furious tirade, but she did not leave as Gríma had expected her to. "We still need you," she finally said, a little painfully. "Rohan needs you. My uncle, my brother and I all need you."

Gríma laughed mirthlessly. "No, my Lady," he said. "I only wish that you needed me in the way I need you."

He finally turned his eyes to look at her. She was shaking her head, her eyes sad. "Your decisions in the past have nearly ruined us," she said. "But whatever people may say, you are an intelligent man. The House of Èorl needs you to assist in guarding it, when its king and third marshal are absent."

Gríma propped himself up on his elbow. "You won't leave me controlling the throne," he said incredulously. "Not after all that I've done."

Éowyn nodded her agreement. "Perhaps not," she said, "But I will rule in Théoden's stead. I will need aid from someone else. My brother will not be there to help me, and no one knows the inner workings of Rohan's politics better than you. Besides, if it is me you are counsellor to, I suspect that you will do nothing to harm me."

"No," Gríma agreed with a sigh. "I would not."

They sat in silence for awhile, Gríma staring at the ground and Éowyn looking up towards the heavens. "The stars are beautiful tonight," she finally said, somewhat uselessly.

Gríma glanced up at them. "I have never found stars to be beautiful," he replied.

Éowyn glanced at him in surprise. "Why not?"

He shrugged slightly. "Stars are for lovers and the young and naïve. I am neither. In some ways, I have never been either."

Éowyn's glance was pitying. "I'm sorry, Gríma," she said quietly.

Gríma stood abruptly, brushing grass from his black robes. "I don't need your apologies," he said with a touch of ire. "I think I will return to the camp. A fire does not seem so bad an idea after all."

Éowyn scrambled to her feet and ran after him, following him back to the encampment.

- - - - - - - - - -

Éowyn did not speak to Gríma for a few days. The ride to Dunharrow was not terribly long, but it was a tiring journey. Riding all day was not as easy as it looked, and all the Riders were exhausted by the time night fell. There were no more nighttime disappearances for Gríma; he slept like a dead man when they rested and rode in silence when they moved on again.

On the third day, they arrived at their destination. Dunharrow was swarming with Riders from various parts of the Riddermark, all of whom paused in their work when they saw their king riding through their ranks. Théoden surveyed them closely, and the look of disappointment was evident on his face. Éowyn noted it and rode closer to her uncle. "You are displeased," she said softly.

"They are good men," Théoden replied. "It is not them I am displeased with; I simply expected more of them."

"How many are there?" Éowyn asked.

"At last report, six thousand are ready to ride for us," Éomer said. "It is a goodly number for small wars at home, but it won't be enough to break the lines of Mordor. Many will die."

Théoden sighed heavily. "Had we the numbers to crush Mordor, still would many worthy men fall," he said sadly. "That is the way of war."

Éowyn watched the faces of the soldiers as she rode past them. They were awed to see their king, but they seemed tired, too, and worried. They knew their numbers were not great enough to defeat Mordor. They knew they were headed towards their doom, but they were resigned, fearful as they were. Wherever Théoden led them, they would follow.

She glanced backwards and saw Gríma studying the soldiers as well. His face wore a look of disgust. _Such useless bravery,_ she could hear him saying. _What purpose does their death serve? Sauron will win this war; there is no hope for us. Better that they remain with their families to protect them than go to seek glory and honor on the battlefield._

He turned forward once more, and his eyes met hers for a few seconds. His gaze pierced hers, striking at her core, as though he were drawing some part of her personality out through her eyes. What he read there she could not guess, nor did she wish to know. She turned her head quickly and broke the heated stare, now staring at the ground as it passed beneath her horse's feet.

- - - - - - - - - -

Théoden's camp was prepared quickly by his Riders while he oversaw it. Éowyn wanted to help, but none of the soldiers would allow her to do so, protesting that she was a lady and that this was men's work. Instead she watched, infuriated by the stubbornness of men, and thought of the coming battle.

Her eyes wandered idly about the camp until they noted a dark figure standing alone in the shadow of the ominous mountain overlooking the camp. Éowyn glanced up at it and shuddered suddenly and inexplicably. She had heard tales of that place - how many had entered and never returned - but she had not seen it before. She wondered what could possibly have drawn Gríma to that place. _Creatures of the dark thrive best in the shadows,_ she thought, and began walking towards him.

Éowyn slowed as she grew closer to him until she drew up alongside him. "Counsellor?" she whispered, barely trusting her voice. The feeling of dread was strong and terrible, standing as close to the mountain as she was.

"The Dwimorberg," Gríma breathed, almost reverently. His icy blue eyes were fixed upon its craggy surface with an eerie sort of reverence, as though he wanted nothing more than to walk down the chalky gray path that began directly at his feet. "My father kept a book in his house that told of this place. I have longed to see it since I was but a boy. I read often of the Paths of the Dead, and the legends."

"Your interests are most morbid, my Lord," Éowyn said, shifting slightly in discomfort. "They say that none who enter ever return."

"So they say," Gríma agreed, and his voice held a longing that frightened her deeply. It almost seemed as though he sought to follow that path, disappearing into the legend that so fascinated him, so that he need never return to the life he was leading now.

Éowyn took hold of his arm and tugged slightly. "Come away," she pleaded. "The camp is prepared now, and there will be food and drink soon. You must be nearly as weary as I from the day's ride."

She became even more frightened when Gríma did not even glance at her, his eyes still firmly fixed upon the beginning of the Paths of the Dead. "Come away!" she said more forcefully, bordering on hysteria.

He turned to her as though startled from a dream. He took in her face with wide, astonished eyes, and glanced down at where her hand clutched his arm.

Éowyn reached out and took Gríma's other hand in hers. "That path is not for you, my Lord," she said tremulously. Her eyes almost begged him to return with her to the world of the Rohirrim, to step away from the danger and certain death that awaited him, should he follow the trail as he so desired to.

He glanced back at the Paths, sighed, and turned away, letting her lead him into the depths of the encampment, where she knew he would be safe. He spared a last glance at the Dwimorberg, his gaze lingering there until Éowyn tugged at his arm a final time, forcing him to look forward once more.

- - - - - - - - -

Éomer noticed Éowyn and Gríma's return to the camp and, more importantly, Éowyn's deeply shaken appearance. She was clutching Gríma's hand as though she did not dare release him, and he was following with surprising reluctance, for a man who seemed so utterly obsessed with Éowyn. Éomer stood quickly and approached the duo.

"Counsellor," Éomer greeted, inclining his head slightly. "My sister. Some of the soldiers have brought us food, if you are hungry."

"Thank you, brother," Éowyn murmured. "We'll go at once."

"Gamling can go with Gríma," Éomer said quickly, glancing at Gamling, who stood nearby. "I need to speak with you."

Gríma looked sharply at Éomer. "Still don't trust me with your sister, I see," he said dryly.

"Truly, I do not," Éomer agreed wholeheartedly. "But I also truly have need to speak with Éowyn alone - and you are not involved." He motioned to Gamling. "Go," he insisted. "The food will do you good, counsellor. You will need all your strength in days to come."

Gríma eyed the siblings carefully before turning away and following Gamling, who looked none too pleased to be leading the counsellor anywhere. Éomer shook his head as he watched them go, smiling slightly. The smile evaporated quickly as he turned back to his sister. "You are upset," he said concernedly. "What has happened?"

Éowyn shuddered slightly. "Gríma was staring at the Dwimorberg," she whispered fearfully. "I suspect he wanted to go down the Paths. I had to tear him away from that place to get him here. If I had not come…"

"You think he would have had the courage to walk down the Paths of the Dead?" Éomer questioned incredulously.

"You did not see the look on his face," she said, still shivering. "He _wanted_ to meet death there. He _wanted_ to die as a part of a legend. I think he's never craved anything so badly."

"Save you," Éomer added, sounding a little disgruntled.

"Perhaps more than me," Éowyn said with a shake of her golden head.

"No," Éomer said certainly. "He has never and will never desire anything more than you." Éowyn opened her mouth to protest, but Éomer spoke over her. "Perhaps I did not see the look on his face as he stood at the mouth of the Dwimorberg, but similarly you never saw how his eyes followed your every step. You felt it, true; but you didn't see the terrible longing that caused his betrayal, else you would better have been prepared for it."

Éowyn did not answer. She merely stared at the Dwimorberg, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Éomer sighed and reached up to stroke his sister's hair. "Aragorn was drawn by the Dwimorberg, too," he said. "He seemed to fear it, but he looked almost as though his fate awaited him there. I fear he, too, may follow the path to his ending."

Éowyn's head swiveled to look at her brother, horror crossing her features. "You will not permit him to go, will you?" she asked.

Éomer shook his head. "It is not for me to command Aragorn son of Arathorn," he said sadly. "He will do what he must."

"Where is he now?" Éowyn demanded. "Perhaps I can dissuade him."

"It is useless to try," Éomer said forcefully.

"Without him, our hope will fail," Éowyn cried. "I will not let him ride to his death! I will not let him abandon us!" With that she turned and ran towards the path, seeking Aragorn.

Éomer watched her go, but made no attempt to follow her.

- - - - - - - - -

Éowyn found Aragorn saddling his horse nearby his tent. She stared at him briefly and then rushed towards him, betrayal written across every inch of her face. "You cannot do this!" she cried out. "The men here ride tomorrow! You cannot leave on the eve of battle!"

He ignored her, continuing with his work. Éowyn reached up and gripped his horse's saddle. "We need you here," she whispered pleadingly.

At last he looked up. "And why have you come?" he questioned.

A small, fragile smile crossed Éowyn's face. "Do you not know?" she asked tremulously.

Aragorn looked at her sadly for a moment, and then he told her gently, "It is but a shadow and a doubt that you love. I cannot give you what you seek."

The fragile smile shattered, and Éowyn drew back, eyes wounded. She said nothing; her expression spoke for her. She felt as though the mountain above had collapsed around her, that she had been crushed amidst the rush of boulders, and that the wounds caused by this collapse would never be healed. She tried to force words through her lips, but nothing came - nothing save several crystal tears.

Aragorn turned from her, mounted his horse, and left her standing in the cold darkness, utterly alone.


	18. The Sealing of a Promise

Éowyn stood alone for a long while, darkness settling around her and swallowing her whole. She heard men speaking in distress, but their voices were distant and swirled like water around her. Her disbelief and pain slowly sank into her bones, burning her all the way through to her soul.

Aragorn had _denied_ her. Despite what her brother had said and despite what had seemed Aragorn's most obvious intentions, he had not returned her love. How was it possible? He had appeared to care for her. He had looked at her with such intensity and affection; he had seemed to _know_ her, to understand her better than any other man.

No. Not any other man. There was one who knew her better…

Éowyn jerked abruptly from her heartbroken trance. No. Gríma could not help her. Her fists clenched involuntarily, and she angrily wiped tears from her cheeks. She could not stand the thought of facing him and admitting that he had been right when he had told her Aragorn's desires were not at all what she thought. She had supposed he had been lying then, a pathetic attempt to drive her from the man she loved; but he must have known something that she had not…

The thought only made her angrier. If he had known, then surely her brother or uncle had also known. How could they have encouraged her fragile and innocent adoration when they had surely realized that her hopes could never come to fruition?

Éowyn abruptly steeled herself, the tears ceasing to flow from her eyes, her face hardening and going still. She had a talent for numbing her emotions; it had earned her a reputation describing a stern nature and a cold, bitter aloofness. It was her method of escape. If she froze her emotions, stilled the agony in her heart and swallowed her despair, it could no longer destroy her. Instead, it ate silently at her soul, rending her from the inside out. It was a terrible price to pay to hide her pain, but Éowyn daughter of Éomund had never felt the need to share her agony with anyone.

She turned and walked into the camp. Her step was slow and measured, her face grim. If any that she passed could tell that she had been weeping, they did not acknowledge it. In fact, most of them did not seem to notice anything was amiss. Their eyes were downcast and their faces as dour as Éowyn's. She did not pause to ask what the trouble was, but inwardly she wondered what had put the soldiers in such a bleak mood.

When she reached the middle of the camp, Gamling spotted her and acknowledged her with a small bow. "I see by your look that you are already aware of Aragorn's departure," he said.

Éowyn could not keep a small flinch from flickering across her face. Oh, she knew, knew it more acutely than Gamling ever would. "The Riders are disheartened," she said softly, her voice betraying her own sadness.

Gamling nodded. "Without Aragorn, we have no hope of defeating Sauron's army," he said, and he sounded almost angry.

"We had no hope of that at the start," Éowyn said flatly. "Our numbers are not great enough. Even the son of Arathorn could not lead us to victory."

Gamling had known this, of course, but to hear it from her seemed to make the situation worse. "Then why did Théoden King bring us here?" Gamling demanded. "To die for honor? I have a family to care for, and a home to defend! I should not waste my time on useless battles that we cannot win!"

Éowyn's rebuke was swift and her voice sharp. "My uncle does what is best for his people," she said severely. "There is some wisdom in this that you and I cannot yet see."

"He did not always do what was best for us," Gamling muttered. "He trusted the Wormtongue and let that same bastard use him as a puppet through which Saruman ruled our lands."

"That was not his fault!" Éowyn cried. Her hand leapt of its own accord into the air, as though to strike Gamling, but she forced herself to let it drop. "You will not speak of Théoden King this way," she warned, "Or you will be branded a traitor and banished."

"Banished?" Gamling scoffed. "As Gríma has been banished from our lands? If such would be my punishment, then label me a traitor, my Lady. I fear such men are the ones who will be rewarded ere this war is ended."

Éowyn had nothing to say to this remark. She glared icily at Gamling and then turned away, a pale golden ghost disappearing into the blackness of the night.

- - - - - - - - -

Gríma watched from opening of his tent as Éowyn made her slow and careful way towards her own shelter. He had not seen what had occurred, but he had already guessed that Éowyn knew that Aragorn had gone. The hardened expression on her face confirmed his thoughts. _So she knows he has abandoned her,_ he thought, _And it has wounded her deeply_.

He stepped out from his tent and gave a sweeping bow. "My princess," he murmured.

"I do not wish to see you," Éowyn spat, and the venom in her voice startled Gríma so greatly that he almost fell.

He managed to recover himself and stood once more, his body rigid. "Why do you speak so harshly to me?" he demanded. "You have no right. Indeed, it is I who should have reason to quarrel with you."

"It is only so in your twisted mind," Éowyn snarled. "Will you never leave me be, damnable traitor? I want nothing to do with you! Take your leave of me at once. Indeed, I would consider you wise if you chose to flee this place entirely." When he still remained, gazing at her with a deeply injured stare, she cried, "_Go!_"

His eyes hardened, and he bowed again, if only slightly. "As you wish it, Lady Éowyn," he said in a low voice, barely containing his anger. "I will leave you…" He paused, and then glanced at her significantly. "…for now."

"For now?" Éowyn repeated, nearly erupting with her rage. "And why not forever, as I would ask of you? Can you not understand that I wish to be alone?"

Gríma bravely took a step closer. "You want time to yourself for awhile," he corrected. "But this I know for certain: you do not wish to be left alone forever. You have been abandoned and left to yourself all your life. Your mother and father, your uncle, your cousin, your brother, even your beloved Aragorn have all left you behind. Maybe you will pretend you wish me to do the same, but I will not abandon you as they did – _ever_."

Éowyn was suddenly speechless, her eyes glistening with tears. Her words had hurt Gríma deeply, but he could not bear to see the torment in her face. "Éowyn," he said softly, reaching out to touch her cheek. "I am truly sorry… I did not ever wish to cause you pain, or to allow any other to do the same…"

The tears overflowed as Éowyn closed her eyes tightly. Her fragile composure shattered and she bit her lip so hard it bled as she tried to hold back sobs. Gríma rushed to her side and made to embrace her, but she pushed him away. "No," she choked, "Not now. _Please_. Just let me be alone…" She opened her eyes and looked at him penetratingly. "…for now."

Gríma smiled slightly despite himself. "As you wish, princess," he murmured.

She drew in a deep shuddering breath and turned from him, entering her tent with the same precise, slow step. Gríma watched awhile longer before turning and disappearing back into his own tent to wait for her.

- - - - - - - - -

Éowyn laid in her tent for a long time, alternately weeping and murmuring terrible curses under her breath as she hid beneath her warm furs. She let her sadness and loneliness wash over her, let them crush her in their merciless grips, let them nearly destroy her. When at last she was completely hollowed out, shattered and broken with no tears left to shed, she pushed back the furs and crawled from her makeshift bed. It took an amazing effort of will to pull herself to her feet, and Éowyn wondered how she would survive the following days if even such small tasks weighed so heavily upon her. For the moment, successful in her small venture, she focused all of her attention on walking across the way to Gríma.

Having allowed herself to be broken, she now needed someone who could begin the slow process of healing her. Gríma had extended the invitation to do exactly that, and Éowyn fully intended to take it.

The camp was dark and still, yet uneasy. Éowyn's eyes flickered all around her, watching the camp for any signs of movement. Although nothing stirred and no one spoke, she suspected that few of the Riders were truly sleeping. They knew the fate that awaited them when they would leave the following morning, and they feared it. They knew images and premonitions of the upcoming battle would be all that greeted them, should they fall prey to sleep, and thus they remained awake, eyes wide and frightened and bodies tensed.

Éowyn was almost grateful that she was not one of these soldiers, and that she would not be kept awake by the horrors of war. Yet, death on the battlefield seemed to her a better place than Dunharrow, for here all her hopes and desperate wishes for the future had been destroyed. Without that future, there was nothing.

Nothing, except…

Éowyn pushed back the flap to Gríma's tent and entered unannounced. Gríma was characteristically instantly aware of her presence, even though she had not made a sound. "Ah, my princess," he murmured, rising from his bed. "I wondered when you would be coming."

"You did not think that I might choose not to come?" Éowyn questioned, almost offended that he had assumed she would appear.

Gríma looked at her shrewdly. "You would not wish to be alone," he said calmly. "Not all of tonight. Your loneliness would drive you out in search of some variety of companionship to fill the void that Aragorn has left in you. There would be no point in resisting the offer I made to you."

"I suppose the fact that you were a traitor to my country would not suffice as an excuse?" Éowyn questioned sullenly, stepping further into the tent.

"No, it wouldn't," Gríma replied. "For have I not already shown myself to be loyal to your country again?"

Éowyn closed the distance between them rather abruptly. Gríma almost took a step back, but clearly forced himself to remain where he was. Something in his eyes told Éowyn the slight space separating them was almost unbearable to him. "Why do you always refer to it as _my_ country?" she asked softly. "It's your country too."

Gríma shook his head. "Rohan will never be my country, Éowyn," he said bitterly. "The way in which it has wronged me, and the ways I have wronged it, have separated us forever."

"If you did not hold so strong a grudge, then Rohan would welcome you back someday," Éowyn said.

"Someday," Gríma muttered. He changed the subject. "What happened tonight? Did you see Aragorn when he left?"

Éowyn had thought her emotions drained, but the pain rose fresh in her throat as though she had not spent the past hours weeping. "I saw him," she said quietly, turning her eyes to the ground. "I tried to stop him from leaving. I asked him why he would abandon us – why he would abandon me… and I told him, although not so directly, that I loved him." She closed her eyes, and a sigh shuddered through her body. "He told me that I loved naught but a shadow and a doubt; that he could never be the man I made him in my dreams. And so he left me." Anger exploded suddenly inside her. "How could he do this to me?" she demanded furiously. "He had seemed to care for me –!"

"He _did_ care for you, Éowyn," Gríma interrupted. "He admired you, I think, and were his destiny not different from yours, if his beloved had not remained for him… then perhaps he might have taken you as his wife."

Éowyn glanced curiously at Gríma. "His beloved?" she repeated. "Who is she?"

Gríma shrugged slightly. "An elf of Rivendell, the daughter of Lord Elrond Half-Elven, it is rumored."

Éowyn started in surprise. "An elf?" she said, and then sighed slightly. "Well, of course she is an elf. How am I, a mortal woman, to compete with the beauty and elegance of an elf maid?"

"You are fairer than any of their kind," Gríma protested.

"You have never seen an elf," she accused.

"I _have_ seen elves, my Lady," he stated matter-of-factly. "Once when I was a boy I wandered far and came across a band of them. And though they were indeed as beautiful as tales claim, still I find you fairer than any of their race."

Éowyn looked taken aback. "Why?" she finally managed to say.

Gríma pondered this for awhile. "Elves are creatures of great wisdom, ethereal, older than any of our race," he said slowly. "They seem… _above_ us, I suppose, almost like a trick of the light – you might reach out to try and capture one, but they will merely slip through your fingers." He looked at her with such obvious adoration that she blushed. "But you, my Lady," he said, "Your beauty is like theirs, only closer to the human heart. You are glorious beyond compare, yet I could still reach out and touch you… you are one of us and yet not so, the spirit of an elf in the bettered body of a human."

Éowyn looked away. "Once again your silver tongue sets me to shame," she said. "You flatter me, my Lord."

"I tell only of what I see." He dared to reach out and brush a lock of golden hair from her face. "I am sorry that he has abandoned you and left you such pain, my Lady," he said gently. "I saw how deeply you loved him."

Éowyn met his gaze again. "And you were envious," she pointed out.

"As any man should be when you turn your eyes to someone else," Gríma said simply. "I suppose I've grown comfortable with the knowledge that someday you'll be mine. But the promise made has been shattered, and there are no more guarantees."

She studied him for a minute, and then asked, "How did Saruman intend to keep me for you? He knew I did not love you."

Surprisingly, Gríma didn't flinch at the question. "I know little of Saruman's plans, for if he did not feel that it was something I could assist with, then he would not tell me of it," he said. "I suppose he would have cast some variety of spell on you, or perhaps he would have given you some potion to turn your heart and eyes to me. Or perhaps he would merely have captured you and kept you locked away in his tower, in some dark room where I could always find you if I desired it." He shrugged slightly. "I dared not question him about what I was to receive. I assumed my payment would come, and that was that."

"Would he have given me to you?" Éowyn questioned.

Gríma chuckled mirthlessly. "Oh, no," he said bitterly, still smiling in grim amusement at his own foolishness. "No, my dear, he would have slaughtered us both – you first, most likely, so I could watch as he tormented you and brought you to your end. By killing you, he would have slain me too, for even if he chose to release me after murdering you, I would have killed myself. I would have had nothing to live for."

Éowyn sighed and hung her head. "I suppose he manipulated you also in that regard, as he manipulated my uncle and the rest of us through you," she said sadly.

Gríma tilted her chin upwards. "That time has passed, Éowyn," he said. "Saruman is gone, and both you and I are free to choose our paths in this war."

The words touched something deep within Éowyn. All her life, her path had been set before her – become a lady of the court, become a princess, become a wife. No one asked her what she wanted, and certainly no one listened to a girl's foolish dreams of becoming a warrior. Even Gríma had often denied her the freedom she craved most, even though she supposed his intentions were purer than she had assumed before.

_We are free to choose our own paths._

She arrived at a decision quite suddenly. She straightened determinedly and met Gríma's now curious gaze. "I'm going with the Riders tomorrow," she said softly.

He did not seem surprised. "I thought you might intend that," he said with a sigh. "I would warn you against it, but nothing I can say or do will hinder you." He studied her for a moment, and then said, "You realize it is your death that you ride to?"

She nodded.

He sighed again. "I suppose nothing is certain," he murmured painfully. He reached out and cupped her face in his hands. "Then tonight is the last time I will see you," he said regretfully. "And the last time you will see me."

Éowyn nodded again, her eyes locked with his. They stood in silence a moment longer, and then he bent forward and kissed her deeply. Éowyn made no move to stop him, and indeed, returned the kiss. Gríma closed the space between them and embraced her tightly, as though he was terrified of releasing her.

When they broke apart, breathing heavily, Gríma spoke suddenly. "I know this is your path, my Lady, and that you must follow it to its end," he said agonizingly. "But tell me one thing: if you return from this battle alive – if by some miracle the Valar see fit to spare you – will you marry me?"

Éowyn hesitated, and then nodded. It was an empty promise, she knew, as did he; there was no return in store for her. She intended to die with honor, not to be brought home and made to bend to the wishes of a man. The promise lingered between them for awhile, silence encompassing them as Gríma stroked Éowyn's hair and Éowyn rested her head on his shoulder. At last, Éowyn broke the silence. "When I have gone, you must rule in my place," she said.

Gríma pulled back, stunned. "You would place me on the throne?" he asked incredulously.

"You will take this responsibility with the promise of my hand if Rohan is kept safe," Éowyn said calmly. "If you return to Sauron then rest assured you shall never have me."

Gríma smiled bitterly. "The chances that I might ever have you are very, very remote, my dear," he said. "You intend to let yourself die, and if you are spared you will come to me an unhappy bride."

"Not unhappy," Éowyn said softly. "Not if you care for Rohan in my absence. No matter how you wish to believe otherwise, Rohan is your land too."

Gríma studied her with a frown on his face, considering her offer. Finally, he nodded curtly. "It is done, then," he said. "You will have to leave a letter for the others, signed in your own hand, that states your wishes. Even that may not convince them."

"It will when they see that it states they have the right to execute you should it be conclusively decided by all around you that you have betrayed Rohan," she said with a small smile.

"Perfect," Gríma muttered, "Now they can slay me without any provocation."

"They must have proof of your betrayal," Éowyn protested.

"And if you are not here to oversee this process, my fair one, then who is to say that they will follow your command?" Gríma questioned.

"If they value their honor – which they do – then they will heed me," Éowyn said certainly.

They stood in awkward silence for a moment. "I should go," Éowyn said quietly.

Gríma twisted the fabric of his robes in his hands. "You don't have to," he mumbled. "You could… stay with me…" He flushed at his own inarticulateness and the daring of his request.

Éowyn hesitated briefly, considering. Then, to his astonishment, she nodded.

Gríma stared at her for a moment in disbelief. A dazzling smile crossed Éowyn's face, and she chuckled in amusement. She floated lightly past him, bent, and blew out the candles illuminating his tent. "Well, my Lord?" she whispered.

Gríma reached out and pulled Éowyn close to him again. "I love you, Éowyn," he whispered huskily.

She smiled in the dark. "I know."

- - - - - - - - -


	19. DEATH!

**A/N: Don't you hate how life catches up with you so often? Well, that's what happened to me. I've been attacked by busy-ness in the last few months and haven't had a whole lot of time for fanfiction. I intend to work on this a lot more and get it finished before college starts in the fall (the ending has actually been written! HUZZAH!) This story takes top priority as it is one of my favorites AND, thus far, my longest. There is a segment of dialogue in here taken from the lovely movie Shakespeare In Love. If you have not seen it, you need to. It is one of the best movies ever made. If you have seen it, see if you can spot the lines! As always, please leave me a review to tell me what you thought! Thanks!**

**- - - - - - - - - -**

Gríma son of Gálmód loved the darkness. Even if the stars seemed to mock him in his loneliness, the blackness of night protected him, hid him from the world and allowed him to dream of better lives and better places. Darkness was Gríma's home.

Light, therefore, was Gríma's natural enemy, the sun his cruelest attacker; and therefore when its rays spread their questing fingers deep into his tent that morning, slicing across his face and burning at his eyes, he was most displeased.

He had silently prayed to all the Valar that the night would never cease – that somehow he would awaken and find it eternally dark, that he and Éowyn would await the rising of the sun and instead be kept in the safe cocoon of midnight blackness for the rest of their lives. If night remained, then so too would Éowyn.

Alas, night is ever-fleeting, and no prayer of Gríma's could make it otherwise. The sun arose as it had done for centuries before, and Gríma was left to curse the Valar for ignoring his pleas.

He tried at first to shield Éowyn's eyes from the burning light, moving her so that her head rested against his chest, but all too soon she stirred and awoke, squirming away from him and blinking sleepily until at last her eyes opened. Gríma stared at her as she slowly sat up and pushed her golden hair back from her face. "Good morning, my princess," he murmured softly.

She turned to him with a brilliant smile. "Good morning, counsellor," she replied. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Very little," he admitted, reaching up to touch her cheek. "But then, you hardly slept either."

She blushed prettily and looked towards the tent's opening. "The camp is stirring," she noted as the sounds of soldiers rising began to be heard across the grounds. "I should be going."

Gríma's hand clenched tightly around her wrist. "Not yet," he pleaded. "Please, Éowyn, not yet."

She looked at him with a certain degree of sadness. "I have no choice," she told him.

He sat up and cupped her face in her hands. "You _have_ a choice," he said forcefully. "You could stay – with me… if you wished to…"

She removed his hands and stood, walking away from him. She dressed carefully, pondering his words. Finally, she turned to him. Her eyes were steady and certain, and Gríma knew already that she would not tarry any longer. "This is my destiny," she told him firmly. "This is what I have awaited all my life. Would you take that from me, counsellor?"

He sighed and looked away. "Never, my princess," he said sadly. "I cannot deny you this, much as I wish I could. You must do as your heart commands you, and I must obey."

She hesitated slightly. There were so many things to be said in that hesitation… so many words to fill the emptiness between them, so many words to block the hurt of her departure. But none could express what either felt. Instead, Éowyn walked back to him and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "Do not forget me, counsellor," she commanded. "When this war is ended – when the world has moved on – someone must remember all that occurred here. Write it, tell it, pass it down, so that no one will forget the deeds of the last of the house of Éorl – and the deeds of the White Lady of Rohan."

"I will always remember," he said simply. He paused, then reached up and touched her cheek. "You shall never age for me, nor fade, nor die," he promised.

"Nor you for me," Éowyn replied painfully. She smiled a regretful smile and said, "Write me well."

And with those final words, she was gone.

- - - - - - - - - -

Éowyn moved swiftly through the camp, attempting to remain unseen. Where she was going none could follow her, lest her plan be ruined. She had packed armor that fit her decently but hid her feminine form before she left. One of her servants, the wife of a soldier and a good friend, had carried it for her. At the time Éowyn had expected her desire to bring it was merely a passing fancy, a dream never to be achieved. Now, as she rummaged through the bags that contained her armor, she knew she had brought it with a true purpose.

Would she have gone if Aragorn had not left? Would she have stayed behind or would she have fought beside him?

Or, more importantly, would she, at the last moment, choose to remain behind for a man whom she had sworn long ago never to love?

She paused briefly in her occupation. Gríma did not want her to go, would not be riding with them. He would survive her and live to write out her story, but he would forever live in agony without her.

And what of her feelings for him? How had they changed? Long ago she had thought of him only as the Traitor, but he had proved far more complex than such a title implied. He was a puzzle and she was desperate to unravel his mysteries; he had offered her such an opportunity, had given her the chance to spend her lifetime doing so. And she had thrown that chance aside in favor of death or worse. And what for? Honor? Glory? Suicide?

_No. Because it is what you were born for._

_ Because you are a Shieldmaiden._

_ Because Rohan in its hour of need has cried out, and you have heard the call. Would you truly be a Daughter of the house of Éorl if you did not answer?_

Sure again of her decision, her resolve strengthened, she began dressing herself in the armor. She would ride with the Rohirrim, and she would face death, and she would meet it defending the land – the people – the man that she loved.

Yes. She loved him. In some strange, twisted sort of way, she always had. She would never fully forgive him for what he had done, but given time, given all that could have happened, she might have let it go.

But in war, there was no time for love, no room for peace and joy. In war, there was only blood, and death, and endings.

She strapped her sword firmly to her side, stroking its sheath lovingly.

It was her ending she was riding to.

It was her life that no one would ever forget.

- - - - - - - - -

Gríma was alone in his tent when one of Éowyn's servants entered. "Éowyn is leaving," she said unhappily to him. "She was dressed in armor when I saw her. She told me of her plans to leave you in her place." She glared at him threateningly. "I have her permission to remove you if you should betray her trust," she warned.

Gríma's thin lips twitched into a smile. "You need not fear so much," he said. "I will not betray her – not now."

The servant clearly still did not trust him. "She told the few men who were to stay behind of her plan," she continued. "They are not pleased."

"How astonishing," Gríma said sardonically. "Has she gone yet?"

"Soon, my Lord," the servant girl said. She seemed deeply pained by her mistress's departure. "Perhaps we could convince her to stay…"

Gríma sighed and pushed his dark hair from his face. "I have already tried, numerous times, to change her mind," he said, "But her heart is set, and if this is what she wishes… then I shall not hinder her."

The servant studied him closely for a moment. "You truly do love her, don't you?" she said.

"Yes," he said simply. "Whatever the rest of Rohan claims, I do."

The servant seemed somewhat assured by this declaration. "Théoden King wishes to see you before he leaves," she said with a slight bow. "If you told Théoden of Éowyn's plan…"

"I would be betraying her trust," he said firmly, rising and moving to leave the tent. "And I have done that for far too long and with far too dire consequences to ever do it again. Now, I must ask your pardon – as you have said, the King wishes to see me."

The servant bowed more deeply and stepped aside. Gríma swept out of the tent and moved towards the area where all the Rohirrim had gathered.

He had to admit, he was impressed. There were literally thousands of them, on all variety of horses and in all sorts of armor. They were grave and stern, but they did not appear frightened. Gríma knew they were afraid to some degree, but they had clearly resigned themselves to their fate – for Rohan, and for their people.

To have such loyalty… to be willing to die for his country and his people…

Gríma shook his head slightly. He could not imagine such a thing. His only loyalty was to himself, and to Éowyn. For Éowyn, he would gladly die. If she had commanded it he would have ridden with her to battle – but she had ordered him to remain behind. He had other duties here, another life – a life he would live alone, without the woman he loved.

He supposed he had resigned himself to that, just as the soldiers had resigned themselves to their imminent deaths. But the pain, he knew all too well, would never entirely disappear.

"Gríma!"

The former counsellor turned and saw Théoden riding towards him, surrounded by a troop of Éorlingas. Gríma bowed deeply. "I heard that you wished to see me, my liege," he said.

"I have a task for you, as you are remaining behind," Théoden told him. "I want you to assist Éowyn as she rules. You have much political experience, and in the days before Saruman held sway over you, you were a good advisor. You can help her." He paused briefly. "I have not seen Éowyn today," he said concernedly. "Do you know where she is?"

"She needed to be away, my King," Gríma said. "This war causes her deep grief, and your departure pains her more deeply than you know. She went for a walk earlier in the day, just as the sun was rising. She will return later."

Théoden seemed to accept the explanation. "Bid her farewell from me," Théoden said. "And care for her, Gríma. She will need all her strength to her rule our people."

Gríma bowed again and said, "I will do as you have ordered, my King."

Théoden nodded shortly and then urged his horse forward. Éomer paused his horse by Gríma and said quietly, "Where is Éowyn really, Gríma?"

Gríma was not in the least bit surprised that Éomer had not accepted his explanation for her disappearance. "You doubt my story?" he questioned.

"Don't play games with me, Gríma!" he snapped. "If she rides with us she faces death. She only imagines the glory of battle, but she has never been there when the men are lying wounded on the battlefield – while they scream for death, for mercy, for anything to ease their pain. She has never seen the blood and gore spread everywhere. She knows nothing of battle – only the rosy visions of what she wishes it to be. Now tell me truly, counsellor, does she ride with us or does she remain behind?"

Gríma met Éomer's eyes. "And what, Éomer, will you do if I tell that she rides with you?" he asked softly. "Will you find her amongst six thousand men? And even should you discover her, do you really think you will dissuade her? By the time you find her you will have gone to far for her to turn back."

"You are saying that she _will_ ride with us?" Éomer demanded.

Gríma turned away. "As I said before, Éowyn felt that she needed to leave the camp. The desire to ride with you was heavy upon her. She is gone. You will not see her again."

"Do not speak in riddles to me!" Éomer snarled. "Tell me where she is!"

Gríma glanced over his shoulder. "I know not," he said firmly. "She is gone. She has left the camp. Whither to, I do not know, and hence cannot tell you." Éomer opened his mouth to protest this answer, but Gríma turned away again and called, "Farewell, Lord Éomer. May you survive this battle and return victorious. Rohan shall be in sore need of you."

"You know we ride to death," Éomer said darkly.

"Then may you die an honorable and glorious death," Gríma tossed back over his shoulder. Before Éomer could reply, Gríma seemed to melt into the shadows and disappear into the crowd.

- - - - - - - - - -

Armor was very hot and uncomfortable.

Éowyn was not altogether surprised by this, but it was undeniably the most prominent thing on her mind as she sat amongst her fellow riders, awaiting the call to depart. Her horse was stomping anxiously at the ground, snorting beneath her. Her helmet made her head hot, but it guarded her face from view. The men around her were jesting with her, assuming that she was a very young boy as she had no trace of a beard on her face. She took their good-humored jabs with a small smile and a tiny blush, but another part of her mind was already focused on battle.

That was when she noticed Merry, the hobbit, speaking to her uncle.

He was dressed in full armor, astride his small hobbit-sized pony. Théoden was speaking to him calmly but firmly, and Merry looked upset.

_He won't let him ride!_ Éowyn realized. _He won't let him go with us!_

Sympathy overtook all of Éowyn's other emotions. _Poor Merry,_ she thought. _I understand how you must feel…_

A horn echoed loudly across the campgrounds. Éowyn stiffened in her saddle, excitement and terror pumping through her in equal amounts. "DEATH!" the soldiers about her shouted, rattling their spears above their heads.

"DEATH!" screamed those who would remain behind.

"DEATH!" Éowyn cried, her voice rising amongst all the others raised in triumph.

Her horse leapt forward as the others did, and her heart pounded loudly into her throat. They were going towards the final battle. They were going to fight.

Éowyn's horse was moving rapidly enough that she almost didn't notice the small forlorn figure of Merry until she had passed him. Almost without thinking, her hand swept down, caught his armor, and pulled him into her saddle. "Ride with me," she whispered in his ear.

A sudden smile broke across his face. "My Lady!" he whispered back.

And no other words needed to be said, save one:

"DEATH!"


	20. Bound by Love

The ride to Minas Tirith was long and unpleasant. The sun beat down upon the weary and heavily armored soldiers, veritably roasting them inside the hot chain mail and metal. Their sweat made the tunics they wore beneath their armor cling closely to their skin. The fabric chafed against their backs and sides, itching terribly – yet still they moved forward, until it was far too dark for them to continue.

The night, when it came, was most welcome to Éowyn. She had ridden long distances before, of course – after all, her people were the horselords. But she had never had to ride in armor, and never in such heat. Gondor, she concluded, must be impossibly hot even in the winter.

She also felt a great deal of pity for her charge, young Merry, who appeared as hot and sweaty as she. He almost fell from the horse when she dismounted; she had to quickly catch him and set him on the ground before he injured himself. He sat dazedly amidst the grass while Éowyn tethered her loyal horse to a nearby tree. When she was through with this task she came and sat beside him, offering him some water from a flask she carried. He drank ravenously until she pulled it away. "Careful, do not waste it," she warned. She took a few careful sips herself and looked around at the various soldiers setting up tents around them. "Today was hard for you," she said sympathetically, keeping her voice quiet to avoid drawing attention to her unnaturally feminine appearance and tone.

Merry sat up a little straighter and lifted his chin, pride coming into his eyes. "No harder than for you," he said. "Although I admit I am not accustomed to riding so far… nor on such a large animal. And it's _hot_."

Éowyn smiled a little and nodded her agreement. "It was difficult for me as well, as you have already guessed," she said. "I haven't ridden in armor before… or at least, not for such a great distance."

Merry grinned. "I imagine that you must have practiced fighting on horseback in armor at least a little," he said. "You seem to be such a –" Here he paused, glancing about nervously to see if other soldiers might hear. " – Such a woman," he finished in a low whisper.

She sighed. "My practice occurred less than I would have liked," she said. "My brother was too often there to disapprove… and then there was Gríma…"

Merry frowned slightly at the mention of the name. "This morning," he said hesitantly, "I saw you leaving his tent. You didn't… er… _stay_, did you?"

Éowyn flushed bright red beneath the helmet. "I don't see how that's any of _your_ business, Meriadoc," she said angrily.

He had the decency to look ashamed. "Sorry, milady," he murmured. "It just seemed a bit… _odd_ – seeing as how he betrayed your country and all that, as I understood it. I guess I just wondered…" He shook his head. "I'm sorry, it's none of my business, as you said."

Éowyn didn't respond. Her green eyes were troubled as she stared back in the direction they had come, a concerned frown on her face. They would have discovered her disappearance by now, back at the camp – and Gríma and the guards would have explained the situation to the few remaining people at Dunharrow. Her servant was there to defend his story as well as the guards, but still she wondered if they would believe him. Hatred for Gríma son of Gálmód ran deep in Rohan; there were many who would look for veritably any excuse to slay him.

Doubt crept into her mind. She shouldn't have left him behind as she had. He would have to struggle for even the slightest ounce of authority – and there would be no way for him to rule openly in her place. The Rohirrim would never accept him. Everything he did would have to be in secret. She trusted him to devise some variety of plan – the Valar knew he was clever enough – but it wasn't fair of her to thrust such a difficult task upon him after all he'd been through.

Besides, it was _her_ duty to take care of Rohan, now that her uncle and brother were gone and her cousin was dead. That was the task she had been charged with, and she had recklessly abandoned it in favor of death. She wanted to die, wanted a glorious end to an impossibly painful life – but by leaving, had she destroyed her country and those dearest to her?

Gríma. How would he survive without her? Such a conceited thought, she realized angrily, but still true. He loved her, wanted her, almost seemed to _need_ her if he were to survive. Without her, he had nothing. Without her he was empty and abandoned in a land that despised him. And she had chosen that fate for him. She had left him, knowing what her people would do to him – knowing what her death would do to him – and he had accepted it passively, swallowed the bitter poison she had handed him so thoughtlessly, all because she had commanded it. Because he loved her.

How could she have done such a thing, knowing somewhere in her heart that she loved him, too?

Frustrated tears slipped out from beneath her helmet. He didn't deserve her heart in so many regards; but neither did she deserve his, if this was how she repaid him his affection.

"My Lady?"

Merry's voice was soft but concerned. He moved closer to her and reached up to touch her cheek. "Please, forgive me if I made you cry," he said worriedly. "I didn't mean –!"

Éowyn hurriedly wiped the tears away. "It's not your fault," she said, furious with herself for allowing her emotions to show so openly. "I am merely… I am concerned. I have… placed many people I care about in very difficult positions by coming here."

"You want to defend your people," Merry reassured her. "So do I. That's why we're both here."

"You have every right to be here," Éowyn said sadly. "But I have other places in which I am needed. I came here with the intent to die – nothing more. But that is my own selfish need, and not what Rohan asks of me."

Merry bit his lip. "I think… well, I think maybe we'll all die," he said sadly. "Maybe we'll survive to the ending of all this, but it doesn't seem likely just now. And maybe… maybe this _is_ where you're needed most. Fate works in funny ways, I find."

They were simple words, but oddly comforting. Éowyn smiled a little at the plain speech of her hobbit friend and then looked gratefully at him. "I thank you for your support, Merry," she said. "Your friendship is much appreciated. It is easy to doubt oneself in situations such as these."

"You've a noble heart, milady," Merry said gently. "I don't think you need to doubt in that."

Éowyn could not express her thanks for such kindness in words, nor did she have the time to do so. Another of their fellow soldiers approached and informed them, "There's some food towards the center of the camp. You two look as though you require some nourishment."

Éowyn inclined her head in acknowledgement and stood, pulling Merry to his feet. They said nothing to one another – they were too closely surrounded by other men – but they walked together to the center of the camp. There was a new sort of comfortable familiarity between them, a friendship that even the other men noticed. They shook their heads and murmured to one another, "The boy and the hobbit – an oddly mismatched pair. Neither should be here. But let us be grateful they have each other… while they have time at all…"

- - - - - - - - -

That night, after they had eaten, Éowyn and Merry sat separated from the others in the camp, as distant from her uncle and brother as they could be. They had been silent since their earlier conversation, but it had given Éowyn a great deal of time to think. She had considered Merry's words, rolling them about in her mind, reshaping and reforming her plans. Finally, she broke the silence by whispering, "I must return to Edoras."

Merry turned to her in surprise. "Why?" he said sharply. He looked startled at his own loudness, and then lowered his voice. "Why, my Lady?" he asked again, quieter now.

"My duty is first and foremost to Rohan and my people," she said determinedly. "And that duty would best be served in Edoras – ruling my people, as I should have been from the start. Gríma cannot do it alone; I am certain of that. And should our battle here fail – and we are all certain it will – Rohan will need a strong leader to protect it when Sauron's army pounds on our gates. Gríma cannot lead them in battle, nor would he wish to; that is _my_ right, and my position. And I have… made him a promise."

"A promise?" Merry repeated.

"I promised my hand to him if he would rule Rohan honorably in my stead," she told her companion.

"Why?" he said, aghast. "He is a traitor!"

She shrugged. "Even traitors may be redeemed," she said, "And I may be the only one capable of saving him now. If I might spend my life at such an honorable task… healing the pain of those I love – my husband, my people, my country… then I will be content."

Merry stared at her in amazement. "This is your choice, I suppose," he said slowly. "And maybe you're right to decide as you have; but I won't be going with you."

Éowyn smiled sadly. "I'm not surprised, little friend," she said. "Your place truly _is_ on the battlefield. You will defend your Shire there, and your friend Pippin, perhaps. But you and I, I am afraid, do not share the same path – much as I thought we might."

Merry bit his lip, then took her hand. "You are a good, brave, and honorable woman," he told her, a bit awkwardly. "Rohan is lucky to have such a leader."

Éowyn squeezed his hand. "And your hobbit friends are fortunate to have such a one as you to count among their number," she said. "And they will know of it someday."

Merry shook his head. "Not if I can help it," he said, steel in his voice. "They live their lives untouched by the terrors of war; and if I have my say they'll never even know that I had to rescue them. They'll continue on as they have for ages, and I'll be as insignificant as before."

Éowyn stared at him, taken aback by this statement. "You're very brave," she said. "And I pray that you _will_ be recognized for all you've done. You will deserve it, before the end."

He did not smile at the praise. He released her hand and looked grim. "Farewell, my Lady," he said despairingly. "May you live long in the memory of your people."

"And may the hair on your toes grow long," Éowyn said with a cheerless little smile. "Goodbye, Merry."

Merry watched as she stood and gathered what little she had together. He was still staring her even after she had moved swiftly and silently to her horse, after she had untied it and lead it deep into the darkness – and somehow, despite his sudden and acute sense of being left alone, a bit of hope rose within him. People as good as she would make things turn out all right.

Of that, he could feel certain.

- - - - - - - - -

Fear hung like an ugly gray mist about Edoras, snaking about the small thatched-roof cottages and coiling in the darkest corners and alleys. The denizens of Edoras moved swiftly through their city's streets, eyes downcast, as they tried to avoid the thoughts of all the husbands, fathers, brothers, family and friends who were even now off at war.

Gríma and the small contingent of soldiers had returned nearly a fortnight earlier, and merely the traitor's presence made the people even more uneasy. He never left the relative safety of Meduseld's walls, and even when he was within that haven he spent relatively little time outside his own quarters. He had been rather astonished to note their clean state. Beda, Éowyn's maidservant who had returned with them, had explained that Éowyn had seen fit to tidy them. The thought of Éowyn in his quarters, her hands touching his things, gently putting them back in their places – it was unbearably painful to him. Someday he might have watched her at such tasks, admired the effortless grace of her movements and her incredible beauty as she worked – but that was a future he could never hope for. She had chosen death instead of him, and she had left him this impossible task – ruling the country without her.

Gríma and Éowyn's guard had ridden back into Edoras with Beda hidden beneath a cloak, so only her golden hair showed. She rode limply before Gríma on his horse, head draped in a heavy hood. When questioned, the leader of the guards, named Horst, had told whoever asked that Éowyn had fallen seriously ill, that she would for the time being be administered to by Gríma (under careful guard, of course) and that she be would confined to her quarters. When they entered Meduseld, they rushed Beda quickly into Éowyn's rooms so that none would see her closely enough to note the difference. Beda had been spending a great deal of time restlessly locked away in Éowyn's quarters, masquerading as their errant princess whenever necessary.

Thus far, their charade had been successful; but Gríma grew more fearful every day that they would be discovered. And of course _he_ would be left with the blame for Éowyn's death, and he would be slain for it.

He didn't need death to punish him for letting Éowyn go; he punished himself enough as it was.

As if his own grief over her loss wasn't enough, he also received the brunt of the guards' anger over her departure. He had to fight for every single law he wanted to enforce and for every command he issued to the guards. They argued with every point he made; they never gave ground until it became clear that they had no other choice. Even suggestions that they knew would be invaluable to Rohan they argued with. At the end of each day his mind was ragged and worn, his nerves stretched to the breaking point. He wished endlessly for the days when he ruled without question, and then instantly regretted it each time. No, he did not ever want to be trapped in thrall to another, ever again.

Except Éowyn. He didn't mind feeling controlled by her.

Nonetheless, Gríma was mentally cursing her as he sat in council with the guards once more in her chambers – cursing her for leaving him in such an awkward and difficult position.

"You cannot force such laws upon our people," one guard was saying while Gríma mentally strangled him. "Not permitting them to ride their horses outside of Edoras without special permission or without guard is ridiculous!"

"The law is meant to protect Edoras' citizens from harm!" Gríma snapped in irritation. "Do you not understand that there are still Uruk-hai and orcs wandering Rohan's countryside? Your wife, Horst, or your children, Aelfast, could easily be slain by such creatures, should they choose to ride too far. It is a simple precaution that _must_ be taken."

"It seems to me as though you are trying to trap our people here, as you tried to do before," Horst said harshly. "I do not trust you, snake."

"You have made that abundantly clear," Gríma snarled. "Were I in your position, doubtless I would feel the same; but you make my duty here an impossible one when you argue as much as you do."

"And _we_ cannot permit you the opportunity to usurp Éowyn's rightful place on the throne, as you have done before," Horst retorted. "Éowyn would not have wanted you to rule unchecked."

Gríma was about to retort, but a familiar and most welcome voice replied before he could.

"Neither should you be obstructing laws you know are in the best interests of the country."

Gríma leapt from his seat, his face lit with an incredibly brilliant smile. "Éowyn," he breathed, incredulous but ecstatic.

Éowyn pulled her helmet from her head and smiled at him. "I… felt that my duties were better served… _here_," she said, hesitating slightly. Her words were directed at Gríma, her eyes full of her heart. _I came back for you,_ they seemed to say. _Can you forgive me for leaving you?_

"My lady," Horst said, unbridled joy in his voice, "We are delighted to find you returned safely here." He bowed before her. "May I assume that you will take over immediately?"

"Not immediately," Éowyn said. "I have had a very long journey here, and I am tired; give me this day to rest, and I shall resume my place tomorrow. Now, if you wouldn't mind, gentlemen, I should like some time alone. You are dismissed for the day."

All present bowed and moved to leave. Gríma hesitated, then also turned to leave.

"Gríma, wait," Éowyn said, her voice betraying her own concern and affection. She blushed at her revealing tone and changed to a commanding manner. "I would speak with you; I need to know what has happened in my absence."

"Of course, my Lady," Gríma said in an equally distant voice, bowing slightly to her. The guards glared at him as they filed slowly out, threatening him with fates far worse than death should he harm their beloved princess. He watched them leave with an aloof glare, inwardly awaiting the moment when he was finally alone with Éowyn.

After what seemed an eternity, the door closed firmly behind the last guard. Éowyn's haughty stance melted instantly, and she veritably threw herself across the room to him. He caught her in his arms and kissed her so fiercely he momentarily feared he'd hurt her. She pulled back laughing, but there were tears sliding down her cheeks.

Gríma reached up and brushed them away. "Why so sad, my Lady?" he asked, a frown crossing his previously happy face. "I thought you were glad to have returned."

She laid her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I _am_ happy," she sighed. "But there is so much pain still… my uncle, my brother, all the soldiers…"

"Ah, yes," Gríma murmured, pressing his lips to the top of her head. "They ride to their ends." He paused. "You did not go with them."

"My place is here," she said certainly. "My people need me." She lifted her head from his shoulder and met his eyes directly. "_You_ need me," she said softly.

He smiled. "Yes, I do," he agreed. He reached up to stroke her face, then took a step away from her. "I shouldn't stay," he said, looking away. "Your guards will suspect something if I remain here overlong."

"Then let them," Éowyn said dismissively. She grabbed his hand and pulled him in the direction of her bedchamber, then paused and looked back at him, tilting her head questioningly to one side.

A smile broke across his face. "Éowyn, I don't know if you realize how much I love you," he breathed.

Éowyn beamed. "Oh, I think I do," she promised.

- - - - - - - - -

Gríma awoke later that afternoon when Éowyn began planting little kisses everywhere on his face. "Mmmmm," he sighed. "My love…"

He felt her smile against his cheek. "You should be waking up, counsellor," she whispered.

He frowned slightly. "I was having a good dream," he said petulantly.

Éowyn pressed her mouth to his. "I suspect," she said impertinently, "That no dream you were having could be better than what is currently your reality."

His eyes fluttered open, and he drank in the sight of Éowyn propped up on one elbow, grinning impishly at him. Her golden hair was spread all across the pillow, the furs pulled up to her chest. He reached out and took a lock of her hair between his fingers. "You may be correct," he conceded, kissing the golden curl in his hand.

Éowyn brushed his dark hair from his face tenderly, then lost her glowing expression. "What's happened since I've been gone?" she asked. "You can't have ruled openly."

"_Please_ don't ask such questions when I finally am allotted some small time alone with you, my princess," he said with a grimace.

"Counsellor," she said severely, "I am your queen, and you must obey my command."

Gríma raised a non-existent eyebrow in surprise. "My queen," he murmured, tasting the words on his tongue. "Very well, then. We had arranged a sort of deception, with your maid Beda acting as though she were you. We claimed that you were ill, and therefore you were confined to your quarters under my care. Horst promised everyone that he would be closely watching me, of course. We kept Beda here whenever we suspected someone might peek in to see if you were indeed present. We met as a council here, and I have been having quite the time of it trying to protect your people."

"I don't doubt it," Éowyn said gravely. "Can you forgive me for leaving you so?"

He looked up at her with adoring eyes. "I can forgive you anything, my love," he said, almost worshipfully. "And after all, you returned to me."

Éowyn smiled and bent to kiss his forehead. "I love you, counsellor," she said happily.

He drew in a sharp breath, eyes leaping to hers. He stared at her a few moments, incredulous. "Say it again," he commanded.

She frowned slightly in confusion. "I love you," she repeated.

He closed his eyes and let out the breath he'd drawn in so suddenly. "Oh, Éowyn," he whispered, "You have no idea how long I have been waiting to hear those words from you."

Éowyn felt as though her heart swelled and broke all at once, for all the tragedy they'd been through, for all the tragedy they faced, for all that they could have shared and for the all too brief time they were to have together. "When this is over," she said painfully, "When we have reached the end of all things… know that I loved you long ago and feared to confess to it; then denied it when your betrayal became clear. I wish only that the Valar had granted us more time, and the knowledge of what was to become of us when we hid our feelings from the other."

"Éowyn," Gríma murmured. "Do not fret over what is long in the past; you cannot change it, nor can I. The time we have is fleeting, yes, but treasure it while it lasts, and do not burden it with regret."

Éowyn closed her eyes tightly and felt tears slide from beneath her lids. "If I -!" she started, but Gríma sat up and kissed her, cutting her off.

"I know," he said soothingly when he broke away. "If you could change this terrible situation, you would. So would I. All your people know what you would do for them, if you could but save them. That's why they love you so… why _I_ love you so." He smoothed her hair back from her face. "The war is still outside these walls," he said, "And although not so distant as we might like to believe, we have time yet before it knocks upon our doors. Save this precious time for us, my Lady; do not go into the past, nor look towards the future; be _here_… with me… and take comfort."

Éowyn smiled sadly, then laid beside him and let him cradle in his arms.

And there, nestled against her counsellor, she found peace.

9


	21. The End of All Things

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to all my faithful reviewers who have stuck with this story for all 21 chapters (88 pages!) and who have put up with my sporadic updating. I would particularly like to dedicate it to SperryDee, who was in a car accident and read the previous chapter while trapped in a hospital bed, and to 13 o'clock Erik, who made me an INCREDIBLE Gríma/Éowyn YouTube music video. Thanks, and I love you all!**

Éowyn returned to her place on the throne after resting a few days in her own quarters. She and Gríma had both agreed that if she instantly began to appear in court it would seem suspicious. Word was spread amongst the people of Edoras that Éowyn was greatly improved and that she soon be well enough to leave her chambers. "Not by Wormtongue's hand was this miracle worked," many of them muttered. Gríma heard the whispers but did nothing to abate them, and although the barbed words were meant to strike and wound him, they caused him no pain. Finally receiving Éowyn's love was all that mattered to him.

Éowyn was restless and anxious to take up her position again, and after three days time she dressed and went to the throne room to make her first public appearance, despite Gríma's protestations. After that day, Éowyn always rose from bed early and hurried to begin her duties as queen. There was no problem that occured to which she did not attend, no matter left unsolved. She was a good ruler and her people gained more confidence when she reclaimed her place. There was not one among the populace of Rohan who did not love her. Gríma's love for her was the most apparent of the lot and, much to the chagrin of her people, her fondness for him was equally clear.

Éowyn did little to hide her new affection for Gríma, perhaps because she understood that they had only a short time before all was lost to them. Her people whispered angrily about it and constantly advised her to withdraw her heart from such an unworthy traitor, but she did not heed them. Neither did Gríma heed the evil looks that were often given him when he passed through a crowd of servants. Ever was he by her side, whether in the counsellor's chair adjacent the throne by day or in her bed at night. He left her alone only when she went out to ride her horse, and then he would pace anxiously across Meduseld's porch until she returned unharmed.

Soon, however, all joy seemed to slowly disappear as days drudged slowly past. Whatever brief happiness Éowyn and Gríma imparted to each other in the late hours of the night was fleeting and disappeared when the sun rose once more. The days had become dark and full of worry; word had not returned to them of the battle for Minas Tirith, and they feared the worst. Still more disturbing, orcs had been seen on the plains of Rohan, never openly attacking but skulking about close to towns and homes in the lonely countryside. Éowyn once more grew grim and fierce, and Gríma was ever gazing darkly into the distance, his thoughts his own.

Late one night, Éowyn awoke with a terrible cry, bolting upright in the bed she now frequently shared with her counsellor. Her scream in turn awoke Gríma, who always slept lightly and who was ever attuned to Éowyn's needs. He sat up and reached out instantly to draw her back against him, arms comfortingly encircling her. She leaned into him with a shuddering sob, her whole body trembling. "Hush, my love," Gríma soothed, "It was only a dream… I'm here… you've no need to weep."

Éowyn tried to quell her tears briefly. "I saw – I saw – I saw my… I saw my uncle," she choked out, her voice barely rising above a whisper. "I saw him lying dead and crushed upon the ground, and a great shadow stood over him, and it was laughing – laughing, because it had slain my King." She let her head drop as fresh cries rose to her throat and escaped from her lips.

"Shhh," Gríma murmured, stroking her hair. He was grateful she could not see the troubled look on his face. "You need not fear; it was merely a dream."

"No," Éowyn said certainly, surprising clarity in her voice. "No, counsellor, he is gone. Our King is gone."

The despair in her voice and in her face was absolute; it was enough to convince Gríma that she was indeed right. He was astonished by the pain he felt deep within himself at the realization that Théoden was dead. He had betrayed the man, after all, had bent him and broken him until he was hardly human any longer. But Théoden had ever been good to Gríma, had cared for him and made certain he received an education and had given him a place in Rohan's court. If he had not been so weak, if he had not been so easily manipulated, he would have served Théoden gladly for all the span of his years.

Éowyn had ceased crying now. The tears had retreated from her eyes and her sadness had retreated with them into some deep place where it could not be easily reached. The woman lying in his arms was rigid and cold now, like stone, like ice. He wanted to comfort her, but she had already pushed aside her anguish; her usual aloof façade had taken its place.

"My queen," he said softly, "I am sorry."

"You could not have changed the outcome." She pulled away from him and sat up, arms wrapping around her knees. "You should sleep," she said distantly. "Tomorrow will be a difficult day, I think."

Gríma wanted to offer her more comfort, but he knew better than to try to draw her from her armored shell. "Good night, my Lady," he said softly. "Wake me if you should require me for any reason."

She did not acknowledge his words but he was certain she had heard. He laid back on the bed but did not sleep; he could not, knowing his lady was distressed.

Éowyn sat for a long time at the end of the bed, staring blankly into the darkness of her room and wondering if she had made the correct choice in returning to Edoras. Her people needed a leader, that was true; but she might have saved her uncle if she had been at the battle to defend him.

Finally, she laid down to sleep again, knowing her restless thoughts would do her no good. She was not surprised when Gríma turned and wrapped his arms around her, tugging her against him. A tiny smile flickered on her face at his touch, then died and disappeared as sorrow overtook her once more.

When at last she slept, she dreamed again – but this time the dream was of her Hobbit friend, Merry. She saw him standing before the shadow. He was speaking but his words were garbled and she could not hear them. The shadow was laughing again, mocking him as it stooped to devour him; but suddenly there was a blinding flash of light, and there was no laughter, merely the anguished screams of the shadow as it twitched and coiled in its death throes. It howled as the burst of light swallowed it up, and tendrils of its blackness reached forth and sucked Merry down with it, beyond Éowyn's reach.

When she awoke again from this dream, Gríma was watching her concernedly. "You cried out for Merry," he said.

"The shadow that killed my uncle," Éowyn said hesitantly, propping herself up on one elbow. "He stood before it, and somehow it… it was destroyed. But it took him with it."

Gríma leaned forward and kissed Éowyn's forehead. "Let us pray that Merry did not die along with whatever it was he defeated," he said.

"Not dead," Éowyn said faintly. "But lost."

Gríma laid a hand on her cheek. "Éowyn, love, you could not have saved either even if you had been present," he said gently. "If anything, you would have fallen along with them – and Rohan could not have borne such a loss."

"We will all fall, soon," Éowyn said grimly. "The end draws ever closer, and we have no power to stop it."

"We know not the outcome of the battle for Minas Tirith," Gríma said carefully. "Do not lose hope now – for if you do not believe, then none in Rohan shall believe."

Éowyn felt a few tears slide down her cheeks. "It is a great burden, to hold the fates of so many in your hands," she whispered.

"Indeed," Gríma agreed. "And you have done all you can for them. They know that."

Éowyn hung her head, golden hair sweeping across her face to hide it from view. Gríma pushed it over her shoulder and waited for her to reply. Finally, she raised her head and opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment a knock came at the door. "My lady," Horst's voice called, "It is the dawn. Are you awake?"

Éowyn did not respond, her head dropping once again. "She's awake, Horst," Gríma finally said.

Horst's tone grew much less respectful. "Lord Counsellor," he said frigidly. "I suppose you also shall be required to rise."

"Your kindness is appreciated, Horst," Gríma snarled. "You may go."

At first there was no sign that he had left; then, they heard the sound of his boots as he moved swiftly down the hall.

"I loathe that man," Gríma said irritably.

"I'm sure he says the same of you," Éowyn sighed. She looked up and laid a hand on Gríma's cheek. "I suppose we should begin the day," she murmured.

Gríma's eyes fluttered closed, and he reached up to capture Éowyn's hand in his. "Yes, I suppose…" he breathed.

Éowyn watched him, her face unsmiling, but part of her heart melted as he turned and kissed the center of her palm. She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his. He accepted her kiss greedily and returned it passionately. "I love you," Éowyn said softly when she'd pulled back.

"I can never hear you say that enough," Gríma sighed.

Éowyn's lips twitched into a smile, and then she arose, every inch a formal and aloof queen.

It was time to face another dark and unhappy day.

- - - - - - - - -

Two days later, a messenger came galloping through Edoras' gates, riding like the wind. He wore the armor of one of the Riders and carried a banner of Rohan. As he road through the main street of Edoras he cried to all standing outside their homes, "The battle is won! Minas Tirith has been saved; the battle is won!"

Shouts and exclamations of joy and surprise arose all through Edoras. People rushed to the main road, hoping to see the messenger himself, but he moved as quickly as possible to the steps of Meduseld. He dismounted at their base and hurtled up the steps, taking two at a time when he could. He hurled open the doors to the throne room and cried heedlessly, "Lady Éowyn! The battle is won! Minas Tirith is ours!"

Éowyn leapt from her throne with a cry of disbelieving delight. She ran across the throne room and met the soldier halfway, embracing him in her happiness. "They were defeated?" she exclaimed.

"We had thought all was lost, my Lady," the soldier said, a smile on his face. "There were Haradrim with their great beasts, the oliphaunts, and they nearly had us there. Then we saw black ships coming into the harbor from the river, and we were certain we were dead men. But, to our surprise, it was Lord Aragorn who leapt from the ships and not our enemies. With him were Legolas and Gimli and an army of greatly unnatural beings that could not be slain. They destroyed Sauron's army and saved us from certain death."

Éowyn clasped her hands before her face and smiled brilliantly. Suddenly, the smile disappeared. "Théoden King has fallen," she said sadly.

The soldier also ceased to smile. "He has, my Lady," he said, his voice full of his loss. "It was the Witch King who felled him, the leader of the Nazgûl. The men around him were so struck down by their fear that they could do nothing to aid him." The soldier abruptly seemed to brighten. "But the Witch King, too, is defeated."

"What?" Éowyn cried. "But I thought –!"

"Lore claims that no man can kill the Witch King," Gríma interrupted, finally able to enter the conversation. He had been listening intently from behind Éowyn but had said nothing.

The soldier glared untrustingly at him, but said, "And it was no man who defeated him, but a Hobbit."

"Merry!" Éowyn burst out. "Is he well, or did the Witch King take him, too?"

"He is not well, my Lady, but he fights for his life," the soldier said. "Some darkness fell upon him after the Witch King was slain; Lord Aragorn calls it the Black Breath. He is working to heal him."

Éowyn felt a pang in her heart at the thought of Aragorn, but she did her best not to show it. "My brother?" she asked tremulously.

"He is well, my Lady," the soldier assured her, "And he would be glad to know that you are here and safe. He fears that you came with us and fell in battle. So many were slain, we could never recognize and know them all…"

Éowyn closed her eyes, sorrow in her heart. "I would have been honored to fall beside such great men," she said.

The soldier dropped down onto one knee before her. "My lady," he said, voice choked with emotion, "We would have been honored to have you fight beside us; but to know that you had fallen, and that we had not saved you, would have destroyed us. You are a beacon of hope – to us all." Here the soldier glanced significantly at Gríma. He perhaps guessed more of what Gríma felt than any other Rohirrim appeared to.

Éowyn pondered his words a few moments longer; then, with a sad smile, she held out her hands to him. "Rise, my friend," she commanded. "You have ridden far and done much in these dark days; you shall be greatly rewarded. But for now you must rest."

"There is one more thing I am bound to tell you, my Lady," the soldier said. "Lord Aragorn leads the remaining Rohirrim and his Gondorian soldiers to the Black Gates, there to face Sauron for the final time."

"The Black Gates?" Gríma exclaimed. "Is he mad?"

The soldier sighed. "Some think so," he said. "I was assured that there was some overarching reason behind all that they did, but I know not what it is."

Realization seemed to dawn on Éowyn's face. Gríma looked at her curiously but did not question her. "Thank you, friend, for all that you have done," Éowyn said sincerely. "Now, return to your home here and rest. We shall hold a feast to honor those who fell in battle and those who go to defend us against our enemies tomorrow night."

The soldier bowed deeply and then turned and walked wearily out the door. Éowyn stood, deep in thought, in the midst of the throne room. Gríma did not want to interrupt her, but many impatient questions pounded in his mind as he watched her.

A small smile broke out onto her face. "Go on, counsellor," she said with a small laugh, "I know your curious mind is crying out for answers."

"You know why they go to the Black Gates to fight," he said instantly.

Éowyn nodded. "I do," she said. "But here is not the place to speak of it…"

She dismissed the guards and servants from the throne room and sent them to prepare for the great feast that was soon to occur. Then, she led Gríma to their quarters. She dropped onto the bed and began, "Merry and Pippin are not the only Hobbits abroad at this time. There are two others in their number. One of them, Frodo, carried Sauron's One Ring from the Shire to Rivendell, and, if our hopes are confirmed, carries it still, right into the heart of Mordor to destroy it…"

And so she revealed what she knew of Frodo and Sam, of the Nine Companions and their journey across the lands of Middle Earth. Gríma listened raptly, taking in every detail of the story as it was told to him. When Éowyn had at last exhausted her knowledge of Frodo's travels, she concluded, "And so I imagine that they go to the Black Gates to draw Sauron's eye from Frodo as he reaches Mount Doom at last, so that he will go unnoticed until the very last moment."

Gríma was silent a long time, considering all that she had told him. "They are brave creatures, Hobbits," he said finally, a deep admiration in his voice. "Why do they not hold a more honored place in our stories and legends?"

"I can't imagine that they won't, now," Éowyn smiled.

Gríma smiled also. "This must be to what Gandalf was referring when he told me that I might someday write the tale of these days for all who come after us to read," he said. "He thought I would write Frodo's tale."

"And mine," Éowyn reminded him playfully.

"Yours is already begun," Gríma told her seriously.

"It is?" Éowyn said in surprise. "And you haven't shown me?"

"It isn't finished," Gríma said defensively. "I can't permit you to read it until it is complete, now can I?"

"You could if you chose," Éowyn pouted. "What if you write something I don't like?"

Gríma laughed. "Oh, Éowyn," he said, "What could I possibly say about you that you wouldn't like?"

"That I was selfish?" she suggested. "That as beautiful as I was, something about my features was not quite right – my nose, perhaps."

"I happen to like your nose," Gríma informed her with a grin. The smile faded slowly and he looked away. "They will be destroyed if Frodo is not at Mount Doom, or if he lost the Ring or fled with it."

Éowyn closed her eyes tightly, as though protecting herself from such a fearful thought. "Then we must pray that Frodo remains well, and that his task will soon be complete," she said firmly.

"And if that is not the case, my Lady?"

Éowyn opened her eyes and looked steadily into Gríma's face. "Then we will face a very bleak future," she said darkly.

- - - - - - - - -

But the future was not a bleak one for the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, and it was not long before those in Edoras discovered it.

Another messenger arrived within a fortnight of the first's coming, galloping through the streets and crying, "Victory! Sauron is defeated! Victory is ours!"

To Éowyn he delivered a message from her brother, asking her to come at once to Minas Tirith to celebrate Sauron's destruction – and to meet the Hobbits who had saved them all. He also informed her that, though Aragorn's efforts, Merry had been healed, and that the ever-rambunctious young Hobbit was anxious to see her again. Merry had told Éomer of Éowyn's intent to ride with the soldiers, and how she had turned back, and Éomer, although delighted that his sister lived, also reprimanded her repeatedly in his message for risking her life in such a way.

Much to Gríma's surprise, he was also sent a message – from Gandalf. It was simple and brief: "Now is the time to use your art to your people's advantage," the neatly written note said. Attached to the message was a long, written manuscript detailing Frodo's journey and, where appropriate, the journeys of the other Nine Companions. Gríma read through the script in stark silence while Éowyn watched him intently. The instant he was finished, he rose from his seat by her throne and disappeared into his chambers. Éowyn had intended to ask him what the message had been about, but he did not give her the opportunity. Gríma did not emerge from his rooms for a very long time.

When at last he reappeared, it was time for Éowyn and her company to depart. Éowyn had ordered Gríma's horse saddled, in case he should intend to go with them, and he mounted the horse wearily, a long scroll tied tightly closed with a black ribbon and clutched tightly in his hand.

"You look as though you haven't slept," Éowyn said disapprovingly.

"I haven't," Gríma replied blearily, voice cracking from exhaustion. "But it has never been unusual for me to choose writing over sleeping."

"All this time you have been writing?" Horst said in surprise.

"Such is my gift, and ever my task," Gríma said simply, and with that they were off.

- - - - - - - - - -

Merry was the first to note the party of Rohirrim approaching Minas Tirith. "Éowyn!" he cried ecstatically from the post where he stood. "Éowyn has arrived!" He turned and hurtled into the throne room where Aragorn, Éomer, Gandalf, and Faramir the Steward sat speaking. "Éomer King!" he shouted in delight, "Éowyn is here!"

Éomer leapt in a most undignified manner from his seat and ran hurriedly from the room. Merry ran after him, attempting to keep up, but his legs were far too short. Noting this, Éomer paused with a laugh. "Come, my friend!" he said. "If you cannot run as quickly as I, then I shall carry you!"

Merry stopped beside him, panting heavily. "As undignified as that sounds," he said in amusement, "I'm right exhausted enough to accept."

Éomer scooped the hobbit up and carried him on his back to a stable. There, he pulled out his horse, unsaddled and unbridled, and swung Merry up onto the horse, and then himself. "Now," he said, "Let us ride in true Rohirrim fashion to meet my sister."

The horse moved swiftly down the streets of Minas Tirith as people leapt aside for the King of Rohan and his small charge. It was snorting and panting by the time they arrived at the gates at the base of the city, but it had gotten them there in time to watch as the gates were pulled open.

Éowyn was at the head of the group, followed closely by Gríma, Horst, and the two messengers. Behind these five rode a party of Rohirrim, armored and proud, who guarded their queen against any harm that might come to her. Éowyn, too, appeared weary but happy – it had been a long and tiring journey with little rest. Yet still there was a small smile upon her face as she drew her horse to a halt. She glanced over her shoulder and beamed at Gríma as he also stopped, her eyes sparkling. He smiled back at her with the greatest tenderness, his adoration for her quite plain.

"Éowyn!" Merry called to her, and at the sound of his voice her formal demeanor melted away.

"Merry!" she cried, dismounting her horse and running to them. "Éomer!"

Éomer dismounted first, and then assisted Merry down. "You stupid, stupid woman!" he cried, snapping her up in a tight embrace. "How I wanted to beat you when I heard you'd intended to ride with us! You could have been slain and I would never have known!"

"I missed you too, my brother," Éowyn replied with a smile.

He embraced her more tightly at these words. "I feared for you," he whispered. "I feared so greatly for you… if I had lost my liege, and you as well… I would have been destroyed."

Éowyn forcefully swallowed the tears that rose at these words. "All is well, brother," she said gently. "You have fought and defended our people and I have cared for them as best as I could in your absence. Our uncle would have been proud of you."

Éomer smiled and lightly kissed the top of his sister's head. "And he would have been proud of you, too, for all that you have done at home," he said. "Great things you have wrought. You are the most precious treasure that Rohan possesses."

Éowyn blushed prettily, then pulled back with a laugh. "Merry, my friend," she said, kneeling and embracing him.

He hugged her tightly. "I'm sorry," he said painfully.

Éowyn pulled away in surprise. "What on earth for?" she asked.

"I'm sorry… that I couldn't save Théoden," he said, hanging his head. "I tried, you understand. I was right beside him when he fell… but the great beast that the Witch King rode on… well, it was too big for me, see, and it threw me aside, and… and it knocked over his horse, and the horse crushed him, and that was the end." He angrily brushed away a tear. "And when I'd recovered, it was too late," he finished.

Éowyn laid a hand on his cheek. "Merry," she said, "You destroyed the Witch King, a task no other could have completed."

"If you'd been here, I'll bet you could have," Merry said certainly.

Éowyn shook her head. "You were meant for this task," she said. "And I am grateful that Eru saw fit to spare you once it was completed." She smiled once more. "Come; now is not the time for mourning. Now, we will celebrate that we have been freed of the darkness that has long held sway."

She stood and turned back to her guards. She held out her hand, and Gríma rushed forward and took it, clasping her fingers tightly with his. Éomer glanced at their locked hands disapprovingly but fell into step beside his sister without commenting.

They walked in slightly awkward silence for awhile, until Aragorn, Gandalf, and Faramir appeared ahead of them. Éowyn broke away from the group to embrace Aragorn, a brilliant smile on her face. Gríma froze in his tracks and watched her go with wide eyes, fear and envy apparent. Éomer noted his look and said, "I do not think you need fear that she will leave you, counsellor."

Gríma looked to him in surprise. "She loved him," he said.

Éomer nodded. "That is true," he said, "But I do not think she harbors more than a sisterly affection for him now; after all, he clearly rejected her at Dunharrow, else she would not have tried to ride with us."

"You have not reprimanded me for failing to stop her," Gríma noted.

"I do not think anyone could have stopped her once she had made her decision – not even my uncle," Éomer replied with a sigh. "And besides, I know that she must have returned not simply because of her duty to Rohan, but because of you."

Gríma smiled softly. "I would like to think it so," he said.

Éomer scrutinized him carefully. "You intend to marry her still?" he asked. "You will never rule Rohan, you realize."

"That was never why I loved her," Gríma retorted, steel in his voice.

Éomer nodded again, thoughtfully this time. "I know that now," he said, "But until you returned I did not understand why it was you desired her as much as you did. I simply assumed you craved her power and her body. But you would not have suffered through all of this as you have if you did not love her with every fiber of your being."

Silence fell between them. They watched Éowyn as she spoke with Aragorn, laughing and smiling. "If she should choose it," Gríma said hesitantly, "Will you give me your sister's hand?"

"She is a great gift," Éomer said stiffly, "And you do not deserve her."

"I imagine we all agree on that," Gríma replied dryly, "And I include myself amongst that 'we.' But that does not answer my question."

Éomer looked away, eyes intently studying the cracks in the stone of Minas Tirith's walls. "Give me time to think on it," he said finally. "You may have proven yourself in my uncle's eyes, but I will be harder to convince."

"You know I love her as much as you do," Gríma said.

Éomer hesitated, and then nodded shortly. "Yes, I know," he murmured. He forced a smile onto his face and walked to stand by his sister and Aragorn.

Gríma hung back, watching the happy group. He was once again an outsider, watching an intimate party of friends but never being able to share in their joy. He was about to walk away when he heard a soft cough from behind him. He turned and saw Merry standing there. "You've taken care of her, I see," he said carefully.

Gríma looked back at Éowyn. "I've tried my best," he said.

Merry came to stand beside him. "I've never seen her so happy," he said.

"Aragorn and her brother bring her much pleasure," Gríma said bitterly.

"So do you," Merry said. "She smiled like that at you when you rode in."

Gríma glanced at Merry hopefully. "Did she indeed?"

"I've no idea how you didn't notice," Merry said with a snort. "It was plain as day to my eyes."

"Hobbits seem to me to be quite extraordinary creatures," Gríma said with a grin. "What is plain to you is less obvious to the corrupted eyes of men."

Merry was about to reply when Éowyn broke off from the circle of men and came back to Gríma, looping her arm through his. "You look lonely," she said. "And as wonderful as Merry is, he can't be nearly as fascinating as I am."

"I take offense to that," Merry said, looking put out.

Gríma chuckled. "My apologies, Merry, but I'm afraid she's right," he said.

"Come, both of you, join us," Éowyn insisted. "We have much to discuss. Tomorrow there will be a great celebration in honor of Frodo and Sam, and we must all prepare for it."

The trio joined the other group, and after brief introductions to Faramir, they moved off through Minas Tirith's streets to discuss the details of the day that was to come.

- - - - - - - - -

The rest of the day was spent preparing a clearing in the midst of a great wood a ways into Ithilien. Gríma did little to physically assist in preparations, but instead spent the time with Gandalf. Éowyn watched him the whole day through as he and Gandalf pored over the manuscript that Gríma had carried from Edoras. They whispered together, Gandalf occasionally pointing to something and Gríma marking it with a note. _Almost like old friends,_ Éowyn thought with a wry grin. She would never have imagined such an oddly matched meeting several months ago – but then, everything had changed since that day when Gríma had banished himself to Orthanc.

When the sun finally had set, and all the others had quit their work and returned to their homes in Minas Tirith, Gandalf and Gríma were still working by the light of Gandalf's staff. Éowyn sat with her back against a tree and waited for their task to be completed. When at last they were done, it was Gandalf who noticed her first. "I believe," he said in amusement, "That someone is waiting for you."

Gríma looked up from the parchment he had been studying so intently and leapt to his feet. "Éowyn!" he exclaimed. "You should have left with the others."

"I didn't want to leave you," Éowyn said, taking the hand he offered her and letting him pull her to her feet. "Besides, you know not where we are to lodge tonight."

"I assumed you would be staying… elsewhere," he said, pausing carefully to consider his wording, as Gandalf was present and being too obvious would have been awkward.

Éowyn tossed her hair over one shoulder haughtily. "Then you were mistaken," she said, ignoring Gandalf. "I didn't see any reason to be separated."

"Your brother won't be pleased," Gríma said with a resigned sigh.

"Let me handle my brother," Éowyn said calmly. She turned to Gandalf and bid him goodnight, then led Gríma off towards the city. "What have you been doing all day?" she asked curiously when they were alone.

"That I cannot tell you," Gríma said, twining his fingers with hers. "It is to be a surprise for tomorrow."

Éowyn looked so disappointed that Gríma laughed. "Don't worry," he said, pausing briefly to kiss her forehead. "I have something else for you."

Éowyn raised a questioning eyebrow, but did not ask aloud what gift he had for her, and he did not reveal it.

"You visited much with Aragorn today," Gríma noted, and the jealousy that edged his voice was unmistakable.

Éowyn sighed. "He is a hero, and my friend, and nothing more," she assured him. "He has done so much for the Free Peoples in this great war. He will be a good king."

"As will your brother," Gríma said.

Éowyn looked up at him, startled. "I never expected to hear you say a kind word of my brother," she said in awe.

He grinned. "Nor did I," he confessed, "But Rohan needs him, and he will lead them well. I still believe that you would be a better ruler, but my opinion matters little."

Éowyn lightly slapped his arm in reproach. "My brother is better trained in the ways of a king," she said. "And he will rule wisely and well. I believe in him."

She turned onto a path in the midst of the woods and led Gríma to a small cottage nestled away. "This is where they're to have you stay?" Gríma questioned in surprise.

"Aragorn's steward thought I would be comfortable here," she said. "He offered it to me as a retreat whenever I should wish to escape the life of a lady of the court."

"He sounds far more interested in you than he should be," Gríma said darkly.

"Your jealousy is unbecoming," Éowyn told him. She stopped in front of the door and turned to kiss him. He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist and held her close until she pulled back. "You need fear nothing, counsellor," she breathed. "My heart is ever yours."

"As mine has ever been yours," Gríma replied, kissing her again.

Éowyn smiled and turned aside. "I want to see this gift you have for me," she said, opening the door to the cottage and going inside. Gríma followed her and watched as she moved to light the candles inside the cottage. As he watched he removed from his cloak another scroll, smaller than the one he carried but tied with a more beautiful ribbon. Éowyn turned and saw it in his hand, and her eyes lit up. "My story?" she asked.

He nodded and smiled, and handed it to her. Gleefully she turned and dropped onto the pallet, sitting directly at its edge and unrolling the scroll with eager hands. Gríma left her to read, slipping into a small separate room to undress and bathe.

When he returned into their room Éowyn was still reading. She had not moved at all, her eyes focused on the page and glassy with unshed tears. Gríma stood in the shadows and watched as she turned page after page. Finally, she let the manuscript drop into her lap as she finished the last words. She did not look up, but stayed looking a long time at the page before her.

"I have upset you," Gríma said fearfully, after a long silence.

Éowyn's eyes jumped to his, still full of tears. "No," she whispered. She stood, setting the pages aside lovingly, and went to him. "No, my Lord; it is beautiful beyond compare. You have created me to seem as though I belong amongst the Valar. You flatter me far too much, I think."

"No, my love," Gríma breathed, "You are merely blind to how precious you are."

Éowyn smiled tenderly, the tears in her eyes sliding gracefully down her cheeks. Gríma pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply, infusing it with all the love he felt for her. He lifted her from the floor and carried her to the bed, and they did not stir from that place until long after the sun had risen.

- - - - - - - - -

The next afternoon, they all met in the field they had arrayed for the celebration and for Aragorn's coronation. Gandalf and Gríma met briefly one final time before Gríma returned to his place in the crowd. He came to stand beside Éowyn and Éomer, with the other Rohirrim arrayed behind them. Éowyn reached out and took Gríma's hand in hers, quietly noting, "Gandalf has left us. To where does he go?"

"To fetch the heroes we have gathered to celebrate," Gríma replied. "Someone must bring them to us."

For a while they spoke amongst themselves, until Pippin came hurtling into the clearing with Merry in tow. "They're coming!" Pippin cried. "They'll be coming soon!"

Excited chatter filled the clearing as Merry rushed to stand beside Éomer and Pippin ran to stand next to Faramir on the opposite side of the clearing. Aragorn raised a hand, and everyone fell silent.

At that moment, Gandalf entered the clearing, with two Hobbits before him. They were clad in dirty and ragged clothes, doubtless those that they had worn on their long journey to Mordor. They stared at the crowd surrounding them in great wonder, eyes wide and disbelieving.

Aragorn lifted his hands and called, "Praise them with great praise!"

"PRAISE THEM WITH GREAT PRAISE!"

The clearing echoed with the chorus of voices raising up the cry. Both Hobbits turned bright red, eyes still wide in wonderment. One of them scrutinized Aragorn carefully, and suddenly cried out, "Strider!"

Aragorn laughed in delight. "Yes, Sam, it is your Strider," he said, choking slightly on the words, as though a great swell of emotion had risen within him.

At this Sam and Frodo both rushed across the clearing and embraced the King of Gondor with glad cries. Then he led them to the dais on which a throne sat, and seated them upon it also. He sat in a chair between them and glanced in the direction of the Rohirrim.

Gríma loosed his hand from Éowyn's and stepped forward with a sweeping bow. "I beg your leave, my liege, to speak," he said in a clear voice that echoed all across the clearing.

"It is given you," Aragorn granted.

Gríma straightened and looked directly at the two Hobbits seated before him. "Lords and knights and men of valor unashamed," he began, his voice entrancing all who stood listening, "Kings and princes, and fair people of Gondor, and Riders of Rohan, and sons of Elrond, and Dúnedain of the North, and Elf and Dwarf, and greathearts of the Shire, and all free folk of the West, now listen to my tale. For I will tell you of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom…"

Sam emitted a cry of delight, and Éowyn drew herself up in astonishment and pride. The tale swept away all in the audience, drew them in and brought them to tears, and all the while Éowyn fell even more deeply in love with the man she had once called a traitor.

The afternoon faded into evening, but none noticed, so under the spell of Gríma's voice were they. He continued until the shadows had grown long and the sun had nearly dropped beneath the horizon; but then at last his tale was complete. "Praise them with great praise!" he concluded, and then he bowed deeply before the Hobbits and the King of Gondor.

For a while, silence hung over the crowd. Then Aragorn rose and announced, "And now, we will feast!"

Laughing merrily, the great host moved off towards pavilions that had been set up in the day previous and seated themselves. Éowyn stood still awhile longer beside her brother, watching as Gríma rose from where he knelt. He appeared completely different from the man he had been before to both of them. His hair was swept back from his face and tied neatly, and he wore deep blue robes instead of the gloomy black he normally chose. He stood taller, proud of his accomplishment in the telling of Frodo's story, and his eyes sparkled with a fierce new pride that had not been present before. He smiled and bowed low when Frodo and Sam approached him to thank him for his tale. He and Frodo spoke earnestly for a long time, surprising both Éowyn and Éomer.

"They are kindred souls in a way, those two," Gandalf noted with a chuckle. Both turned to him in surprise.

"How so?" Éowyn asked.

"They love to read and write," Gandalf explained. "Tales and history and lore and language are the true loves of them both; they have dedicated their lives to them. No doubt Frodo was most curious about the man who wrote his tale into such a beautiful poem."

"He is talented, my counsellor," Éowyn said with a fond smile.

"He is indeed," Gandalf agreed, "And I am grateful that his talents have been put to good use for us. Saruman manipulated and wasted him, corrupting him beyond his purpose. You have healed him, my Lady."

He laid a hand on her shoulder and then moved away from her, approaching Frodo and Gríma. He paused to compliment Gríma on his excellent work, and then led Frodo away.

Éowyn took her brother's arm. "Come," she commanded. "We should thank Gríma for such a marvelous telling of Frodo's story. And besides, we must eat."

Éomer nodded slowly, then followed her as though in a daze.

Éowyn ran to Gríma and embraced him, kissing him lightly before stepping back. "That was beautiful," she told him. "If all men could use words as you do, we should all be doomed."

Gríma waved the praise away. "It was nothing," he said. "There are surely others who could have done better."

"No," Éomer said, speaking for the first time. "No, I don't believe there is another minstrel, bard, or lore master who could have told it with as much empathy and feeling as you did. You have a great gift, counsellor."

Gríma bowed low. "I thank you, my liege," he murmured.

Éomer started slightly then smiled. "I've been thinking," he said. "About your… request."

Gríma stared at him, suddenly afraid. Éowyn looked between the two, unsure of what they were speaking about. "And?" Gríma asked, holding his breath.

"And," Éomer said slowly, "I think… that whatever I may have said previously… you deserve what you have asked for."

Gríma looked as though he might die of happiness. "My king!" he exclaimed. He knelt before Éomer and said, "How can I repay you such generosity?"

"Take good care of her," Éomer replied, eyeing his sister with a grin. "She can be quite difficult sometimes. But perhaps you know that better than others do."

Gríma rose with a smile. "As you command, my liege," he said.

"And," Éomer added, "I'll expect you to come to my court and entertain me with your latest tale at least once every month."

Gríma inclined his head in acceptance, and Éomer nodded shortly, turning and joining the others in their places.

Éowyn turned to Gríma in amazement. "Does this mean -?"

"Your King," Gríma said with a grin, "Has given his permission for me to marry you."

Éowyn cried out in delight and threw her arms around Gríma's neck. He swept her up and kissed her, holding her as tightly as he could against him.

When he pulled back Éowyn smiled and laid her head against his chest. "Then how does our story end, counsellor?" she asked.

"Hmm," Gríma said ponderously. "In a safe little cottage nestled away in the windswept plains of Rohan with fourteen children."

"Fourteen!" Éowyn exclaimed. She shook her head. "You may need to rethink _that_ part."

Gríma sighed in mock disappointment. "One can't have _everything_, I suppose," he said.

Éowyn laughed and said, "Come, husband; the others are waiting for us."

And with that she led him to the pavilion, where he joined the other Rohirrim and sat as an equal among them at last, a traitor no more.

END

16


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